


Dissonance

by Mats



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anxiety, Awkward Romance, Between Episodes, Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, Chaptered, Consensual Sex, Fills in the Gaps, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Insecurity, Introspection, Light Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Not the smuttiest, POV Alternating, Pining, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Smut, Spans episodes 7-12, Unreliable Narrator, but still smut, just TALK to each other for crying out loud, seriously get it together you two, these two are terrible communicators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-10-26 02:35:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 71,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10777674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mats/pseuds/Mats
Summary: Yuuri takes it for granted that Viktor will always meet him where he is. So when his coach and lifelong idol suddenly plants a very public kiss on him at the Cup of China, Yuuri takes it as a signal that his and Viktor’s relationship is about to undergo a major (and welcomed) change. But he may be wrong, and that might change everything, too.Viktor has a strategy.Hada strategy. But he got too ahead of himself and deviated from the plan... and it blew up in his face spectacularly, just like he knew it would. Now he's back to square one and although he's committed to starting over and doing it right this time, he can't shake the feeling that he's always only one misstep away from watching it all fall apart again.





	1. Misread (Yuuri)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work takes place between scenes and episodes, starting with the break between episodes 7 & 8 and finishing with episode 12. While I want to be as canon-compliant as possible, this work does take some liberties with interpreting some key on-screen moments that are referenced. Each chapter will alternate between Yuuri's and Viktor's POV. 
> 
> I can't promise strict adherence to an update schedule (because LIFE, you know?), but I'm aiming for a new chapter every 10-15 days.

_Finally._

It was the only word that went through Katsuki Yuuri’s head when he felt Russian lips against his own. The pain of having a solid body flung against his or of his back hitting the ice hadn’t even registered. The cold wetness seeping into his costume and the subsequent chilling of his skin were only minor annoyances, realized only after he was off the ice. The kiss, planted by a skating god in front of a roaring crowd and who knows how many cameras at the Cup of China, had immediately dulled Yuuri’s awareness of nearly everything save the heat in his chest and the immediate need for more.

A need that is still very much begging to be met even now, after the closing ceremony and final press conferences.

 _"Want," you mean,_  Yuuri tells himself as he and Viktor walk in silence back to their hotel. _Want, not need._

But no, that isn’t right. It is _definitely_ a need at this point.

If he’s being honest with himself, Yuuri’s desire had been slowly building for years. The form of his desire had changed shape multiple times over the span of his life as a skater. But it’s been there in some way or another from the start.

As a child and early adolescent, he’d idolized the beautiful Russian boy to the point that Viktor existed like some divine being in an ancient folklore. Yuuri had craved any scrap of information he could find about the young talent. Pictures. Features in magazines. Televised interviews. Yuuri had immediately and eagerly immersed himself in the mythology of Viktor Nikiforov. His own mother would often leave relevant newspaper clippings on his desk, even if they were just blurbs, because she knew how hungry her son was for any window into his idol’s life.

“It’s wonderful to be interested in others,” she’d said once when Yuuri had come home from school discouraged by classmates who used words like “weird” and “obsessed” to describe his preoccupation with the junior skater.

As a young adult, when Yuuri had begun to compete in earnest, he thirsted for the skills necessary to become like Viktor. Viktor became an ideal that Yuuri was desperate to attain for himself. He spent hours replaying old programs, paying attention to the smallest details so that he could imitate them during practice. If Viktor perfected a new jump, Yuuri made an attempt. If Viktor added an extra flourish here or held his hands at a specific angle there, Yuuri copied it at the rink. He desperately yearned to at least be a part of the broader world in which Viktor lived, and he’d do anything and everything to get there.

When Viktor had unceremoniously appeared in Hasetsu and infiltrated Yuuri’s reality, Yuuri found himself wanting all kinds of things from his new coach. Instruction and constructive criticism, of course. Praise and understanding, yes. Friendship, if possible. But the thing that took Yuuri by surprise was the creeping ache for the Russian’s presence. His closeness. His gaze. Skinship. Despite an intense level of awkwardness in the first few days, Yuuri often found himself wide awake in the middle of the night wondering what Viktor’s hair felt like, or the name of the cologne Yuuri could smell only when Viktor had an arm draped over his shoulders, or what it would feel like to press himself against Viktor’s chest and allow himself to be enveloped in his arms.

Sure, he’d probably always had a (mostly) innocent crush on Viktor, even as a child. Of course he had. What child didn’t have a fantasy crush on a celebrity? That sort of thing was normal; it’s safe because it’s unattainable. It allows for the exploration of fantasy without fear. But now Yuuri’s fantasy had materialized beside him and intimately inserted himself into Yuuri’s life. Suddenly, that crush wasn’t so innocent anymore.

 _But I’m me,_ Yuuri would remind himself when those thoughts became too distracting, _and Viktor is Viktor._

And so Yuuri had done his best to bury those newer feelings because he knew that while Viktor might be flirty, it didn’t especially mean anything. 

_He doesn' t think about us -- about **me** like that._

Still, Yuuri knew better than most that burying feelings didn’t mean they’d disappear. It meant that they’d ferment. They’d age, become more potent, and build pressure in his chest and gut. And when it got to be too much, Yuuri __did__ release it in the privacy of his bedroom behind a locked door. But that had only ever taken the edge off. The build-up of pressure always came back too soon.

 _Fermentation isn’t really a pleasant analogy, _Y__ uuri thinks at present, his nose involuntarily scrunching at the image.

He prefers to think of himself now as a kettle on a back burner. His wants have been slowly heated, transformed into scorching needs, and that kiss, as brief as it had been, set off the whistle that meant everything had come to a violent boil inside. His desires are roiling and bubbling through every inch of his being and his choices now are to either pour it all out or let it sit and cool.

Yuuri won’t allow himself to cool off though; he knows he’ll regret it for the rest of his life. This is his chance. He will pour it all out.

Because Viktor kissed him. Viktor wants _him._

Now that it’s happened, what else will Viktor want to do?

What will he let _Yuuri_  do?

“Are you all right?” Crisp, accented syllables suddenly draw Yuuri out of his inner monologue.

Yuuri stops in his tracks. Or rather, he is stopped in his tracks by Viktor’s hand gripping his upper arm. It’s only now that he realizes his face is just inches from a pillar standing at the entrance of the hotel.

“Uh, yeah, thanks,” Yuuri says, taking a step back. “I... I guess I was just lost in thought. Sorry.” 

“Yuuri,“ Viktor chides affectionately, “let yourself enjoy your win. No need to get started on self-critique just now. We’ll have plenty of time for that once we get back to Hasetsu.”

 _A joke,_  Yuuri notes.

Even Viktor can't actually think Yuuri is preoccupied with an in-depth analysis of his performance. The man of both his literal and figurative dreams just kissed him not too long ago and now they’re heading back to a hotel room. Not even Yuuri is that diligent. Or that dense.

Yuuri just nods.

“This way.” 

Viktor’s hand moves from Yuuri’s arm to the back of his adjacent shoulder as he maneuvers his pupil around the pillar, toward the lobby doors. Yuuri fights a shiver of anticipation and allows himself to glance up, catching blue eyes with his own. Viktor flashes him a quick smile before turning his eyes firmly forward.

 _He’s nervous, too,_ Yuri concludes, not without a sense of satisfaction.

The atmosphere in the hotel lobby is electric. As soon as the two men pass through the doors, reporters and camera crews immediately rush toward them, and Yuuri’s buzzing anticipation is momentarily overpowered by dread. The press had bombarded him with questions once he’d descended from the podium. Some of them stuck to questions about his program or what hopes he had for his next event in Moscow. But mostly, they wanted to talk about that kiss.

Viktor had done most of the talking then, producing the vague kinds of answers only he was capable of getting away with while moving them toward the arena’s more restricted areas for a swift getaway. During the official press conference, Yuuri had simply rephrased Viktor's previous non-answers or deflected them completely. It seems the reporters and commentators hadn’t been satiated, though. As the microphones, cameras, and voice recorders are shoved into his face, Yuuri scolds himself internally. Why hadn’t he prepared for this? Of course they weren’t going to give in that easily.

“Yuuri Katsuki, can you tell us about Viktor’s reaction to your free skate?”

“Mr. Katsuki, what kind of relationship do you have with Russia’s top skater?”

“Do you think it’s appropriate to be romantically involved with a coach?”

“Yuuri--”

“Mr. Katsuki, a word--”

_I have to say **something** , or they’ll never leave us alone._

And Yuuri was determined to be left alone with Viktor as soon as possible.

“Um,” he starts with a lick of his lips, but that’s as far as he gets.

He racks his brain for something he could say that would satisfy them as quickly as possible without being too specific because, honestly, he doesn’t really know the answer to any of their questions. He doesn’t know what had prompted Viktor, or how to define the shift in their relationship in that moment, or if it’s a good idea to allow said shift to happen.

(And right now, he doesn’t much care about if it’s a good idea or not. He’s going to let it happen regardless.)

“Uh...well, I think...,” he starts again.

But Viktor cuts in to take the lead again.

“Seeing a student overcome his doubts and perform to such a degree is the delight of any coach,” Viktor muses with a trademark smile.

With a gloved palm still splayed protectively against one shoulder blade, Yuuri feels Viktor shuffle him toward the elevators on the far side of the lobby as he continues to speak. The crowd has to move with them if they want to get the rest.

“I may be strict, but I believe in the power of positive reinforcement. I couldn’t have been more pleased with the way Yuuri skated tonight and I wanted everyone to know it. Now if you’ll excuse us, Yuuri has had a long day and needs his rest. The Rostelecom Cup isn’t too far off, and we’ve much to do before then. Look forward to it!”

A practiced wink puts a signature at the end of his statement. Viktor turns both himself and Yuuri away from the media circus and presses the button marked with an upturned arrow. This interview is over.

A few reporters still insist on repeating their questions in hopes of some last minute addition, and Yuuri feels the weight of their expectant stares on his back. Viktor must sense his tensing muscles because he slides his arm across to the other shoulder and pulls him in so that their hips are pressed together.

Yuuri’s cheeks flush a light pink as he looks up at his coach over the frames of his glasses, but he lets himself relax into the protective embrace until the elevator arrives.

“Thanks,” Yuuri says once the doors close behind them.

“Sure,” Viktor replies.

Yuuri instantly notes the loss of weight across his shoulders when Viktor drops his hold to press the button for their floor.

“I... I didn’t really know what to say.”

“I know. That’s why I said it for you."

“Thanks,” Yuuri says again with a timid smile.

Viktor only chuckles.

The rest of the short ride upward is spent in a thick silence that leaves Yuuri fidgeting with everything just to give him something to do. His team jacket’s zipper. The handle of his skating bag. His earlobe. By the time the doors open to allow them out, Yuuri is sure he is on the verge of coming out of his skin. Every step toward his room amplifies the sound of his heartbeat in his ears.

What is Viktor thinking? Yuuri can’t get a read; his coach follows three steps behind and he’s wearing an impressive poker face. What will they do in private? Will he take the lead? That’d be all right, but Yuuri sort of wants to be the one to initiate this time -- an eager response to Viktor’s public gesture.

Is it possible to die from anticipation, because Yuuri thinks it might be?   

 _Calm down,_ he tells himself as they round a corner. _Just kiss him once the door’s closed. Don’t worry about what happens next. Anything is fine if it’s with Viktor._

When they reach his door, Yuuri’s hand is shaking so badly that he has trouble removing the card key from his track suit’s pocket and even more trouble slipping it into the appropriate slot.

“Eh? Uh...Wait,” he mutters to himself as he first misses entirely, puts it in upside down on the second attempt, and then backward on the third.

The fourth try does the trick. A small bulb blinks from red to green and Yuuri yanks the door handle down and pushes it inward.

“Well,” Viktor says from behind him, “good night, Yuuri.”

_What?_

Yuuri spins around, eyes wide. The door slams behind him, loud enough for him to flinch in surprise.

“Huh?”

“I said, ‘Good night,’” Viktor repeats. “You’ve earned a good, long rest.”

“Y-you’re not coming in?” Yuuri asks.

Viktor rakes a hand through his hair and dips his head to one side. “We have a long day with an early start tomorrow. I know today must have taken a lot out of you. You should take the rest of the night off. I’ll come pick you up in the morning.”

Well yeah, he’d had a panic attack, experienced his first real conflict with Viktor, and had sobbed moments before skating his most difficult program to date on practically no sleep. Of course he's tired. He is, frankly, exhausted.

_But..._

“I’m fine,” Yuuri insists. “You can come in.”

_I want you to come in._

He knows he should say it plainly, but he’s been caught completely off-guard. Now he’s replaying the day’s events in his head and he realizes that it’s possible he’s missed the mark on... everything.

“I think it’s best if we both turn in early tonight,” Viktor reiterates.

Yuuri prickles; Viktor’s using that tone of voice that only comes out when he’s playing coach.

“W-what about tonight?” he ventures, remembering talk of an informal gathering Phichit had planned -- not that he’s really set on attending, but he’d assumed they would at least make an appearance.

“Skip it. Like I said, you’ve had a long day. I’ll take responsibility and explain it to everyone later.”

“...then what about dinner?” Yuuri presses.

Viktor looks down the hall toward his room and sighs. “I’ll just order something from room service. You should do the same.”

Yuuri’s mouth pulls downward into a frustrated frown. “If that’s the case, we could just eat together,” he offers.

 _I sound desperate,_  he laments.

“I’m pretty beat, too,” Viktor replies with a coolness that tells Yuuri the issue is no longer up for discussion.

A long pause passes before Viktor reaches out and cups the side of Yuuri’s face. He smiles gently; for a moment, Yuuri feels at ease again like maybe he’s just thinking too much, that Viktor is just teasing him. But the feeling is short-lived.

“You don’t have to worry about it,” Viktor offers.

_What? What does **that** mean?_

“Goodnight, Yuuri,” Viktor says again. He drops his hand, stuffing it into his coat pocket and turns to walk away.

“....good night,” Yuuri mumbles as he watches Viktor's broad back and shoulders move away.

The Japanese skater turns back to his door and yanks the handle down, but there’s no give; the little bulb has turned red again.

“Great,” he huffs as he slides the card into the slot again.

He yanks the handle down but takes one more glance in Viktor’s direction before cracking the door open. He’s just in time to see Viktor disappear inside his room and to hear the gentle, controlled click of the door closing behind him.

Yuuri crosses the threshold of his own room and lets the door slam shut.

* * *

 

_What the hell was **that**?_

Yuuri sits on the hotel bed, hair damp and skin chilled from the cold shower he’d taken immediately after he’d gotten inside. His head was spinning, he was still sweaty from his routine, and was now distractingly worked up with unrealized desire. A shower had seemed prudent. It would give him a chance to think, wash away the day’s physical strain, and calm his pent-up frustration.

Or so he’d thought.

But he’s sitting here, in nothing but a fresh pair of sweatpants, and he doesn’t feel calmer.

He’s upset. And confused.

 _And cold,_ he adds.

Hotel rooms always seem to be colder than usual. Why is that?

Yuuri stands to pull back the hefty comforter and then slips under. He shuffles himself toward the foot of the bed until his body is covered from the chin down.

Viktor had rebuffed him completely. Had Yuuri completely misinterpreted everything that had happened today?

 _Obviously,_ Yuuri chides himself. _You just assumed that something was magically different now. You took that kiss and ran with it, didn’t you? Went wild and projected everything onto him. Of **course** it didn’t mean anything. It was just...Viktor being Viktor._

Viktor told the reporters it was just his way of expressing his satisfaction with Yuuri’s performance. In the lobby, Yuuri thought it was a well-phrased half-truth to get them to leave Yuuri alone, but it seems he was one hundred percent serious.

Reality hits Yuuri hard. When they were walking to the hotel and Viktor had looked away from him... that wasn’t Viktor being nervous. That was nothing. Yuuri’s overactive imagination. When he’d pulled Yuuri into a close embrace while waiting for the elevator, that was also nothing. Yuuri had told him earlier in the day that he didn’t have to say anything when Yuuri was feeling anxious, but needed only to stay beside him. Viktor was just doing as he was told. Once the doors had closed, Viktor hadn’t touched him, right?

Except he _had_ touched Yuuri’s face. Told him he didn’t have to worry about it, whatever "it" was. Yuuri hadn’t understood his meaning until this moment.

 _The kiss,_ Yuuri realizes. _He was telling me not to worry about that kiss._

Groaning, Yuuri slides his hands up his face, forcing his glasses up to his brow.

_I'm really stupid. Really, really stupid._

He removes his frames, sets them on the bedside stand, and throws one arm over his eyes. With a hard sigh, he tries to deflate himself, to force out the twisted, heavy knots in his chest. It works. Sort of. His confusion subsides; he’s figured it out, and Yuuri’s misreadings are no one’s fault but his own.

But now he’s left with embarrassment.

What if Viktor __had__  come in while Yuuri was still under the wrong impression? The thought is mortifying. What if Yuuri had gotten carried away, had mustered the nerve to do more than just return a kiss? And what did “more” even entail?

_...running my hands over his chest, curling his hair into my fists, pressing him up against the door... **Oh.**_

With eyes wide open now, Yuuri removes his arm and lifts the edge of the comforter just enough to see that it’s not only embarrassment he’s been left with. That burning need from earlier has transformed once again. This time, it’s physical and almost __painfully__  evident.

He bites the corner of his lower lip and stares down to the place where his sweatpants are pulled taut. An unmistakable throb beckons his hand for contact. Yuuri feels heat radiate from his entire body.

For a moment, he considers ignoring it. It feels wrong given the way things turned out.

_But..._

He’s still pent-up and if he doesn’t do __something__ , he’ll never sleep. Especially now, he doesn’t want to hear Viktor scolding him for not following sound advice from his coach. If Viktor comes to the door in the morning to see bags under Yuuri’s eyes, he’ll know something is up.

Besides, it’s not the first time he’ll have done this with Viktor’s image in his head. It’ll be just like before. Before, when he’d never even considered that the actual living legend might replace the fantastical one in his bed.

 _There’s no harm in it,_ he reminds himself. _Viktor will never know._

Licking his lips, Yuuri reaches down under the cover and slips his hand past the band of his joggers. The moment his fingertips brush the tip of his erection, he sucks in a breath and tilts his head up and back into the pillow. His eyes involuntarily glue themselves shut and a heady sensation falls over him. It’s like being drunk.

After lifting his hips slightly so that he can shimmy his pants down just enough to free himself from its confines, Yuuri returns to the scenario he’d started.

_What was I planning to do if Viktor had come in? I was going to kiss him. Grab him. Trap him. And then..._

As he grips himself and slowly works a stroke from tip to base and back again, he can see it -- feel it, even -- with surreal clarity.

He’s undoing the Russian’s shirt buttons and tie. Working his tongue along an elegant collarbone while his hands go to work pulling the back of Viktor’s shirt up. Walking his fingers lightly up Viktor’s sides, tracing every individual rib as he goes. He presses a hot kiss to the base of that graceful neck and then nips at it.  

Viktor groans with want; Yuuri’s name falls out of his mouth like honey. He shrugs out of his jacket and shirt before forcing Yuuri to look up so he can claim the Japanese skater’s mouth. The force of that kiss presses Yuuri backward and they move together, step by step, until Yuuri falls onto the bed.

Viktor makes quick work of undressing Yuuri from the bottom down; a smug smile plays across his pink lips when Yuuri is exposed. Yuuri’s cheeks are burning. He’s embarrassed, but being on display like this, wholly unconcealed before his idol, excites him. He brings the back of his hand to his mouth in a half-assed attempt to conceal himself from Viktor's calculating gaze.

“Viktor,” Yuuri calls, his voice gravelly and tight.

Under the covers, Yuuri can feel small beads of sweat rise on his lower stomach as he quickens his pace. The throbbing intensifies and his breath becomes more ragged by the second; the need for release is already becoming unbearable. Eager, he begins to lightly buck his hips into his grip as he pumps himself. Still, he does his best to stave off the urge for instant gratification. He’s not ready to be done just yet.  

Because Viktor is climbing on top of him now, having relieved himself of the rest of his clothes. Their lips crash together and Viktor hums into his mouth until Yuuri parts his lips enough to allow the Russian skater to freely explore inside. Yuuri grasps at the hard body above him and arches himself into Viktor, silently begging, but the Russian only grins wickedly against his mouth. He moves his warm, lazy tongue from Yuuri’s lips to his ear, then to the crook of his neck with a slowness that can only be described as painstaking _ _.__ He’s taking his time, and Yuuri can only whimper in response.

Delicate fingers and a hot, wet mouth are all over his body, seemingly at once... all except the places Yuuri is most aching to be touched. Yuuri’s going crazy and moans unabashedly as sensory overload sets in.

“Viktor, _please_ ,” he whines out loud.

Viktor chuckles, but sits back on his knees, ready to oblige. The sudden absence of weight and bodily contact leaves Yuuri shaking as Viktor licks two long fingers in preparation.

“A--...Aah.. Nnnnnn!”

Just as Yuuri swears he can feel pressure at his opening, he thrusts his hips upward. The timing is too good; he cries out as he unintentionally hurtles over the edge of imagination and crashes back into reality by spilling himself into his hand.

Yuuri’s mind goes white until the waves subside, leaving him spent, twitching, and huffing in his hotel room.

The room where Viktor isn’t.

 _Tomorrow when he comes to get me, I’ll act normal. It’ll be fine. This has to be enough,"_ he thinks, inspecting the mess covering his hand.

He slips out from under the comforter and heads for the bathroom. The air outside of his bed feels even colder now.

_It **will** be enough._

He’s not sure he believes himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Yuuri is not completely inexperienced when it comes to sexual encounters. In the series, he pleads "no comment" when Viktor asks about his former lovers, but never outright denies having had an experience. Even later, when Viktor notes that Yuuri hasn't ever really had a lover, Yuuri just scoffs. Maybe he's never had a significant other or even a full-on sexual experience, but I do think he maybe had one or two one-off almost-experiences in which he played a passive role. He just went along with it because he thought that's what people his age do. But he never really thought of those encounters as love, and he's never taken the initiative to pursue someone. Thus, he doesn't really "get" eros or what it means to crave someone until Viktor comes along. 
> 
> 2\. Even though Yuuri has a crapton of physical stamina, he's almost always a quick finisher, despite his best efforts. It's actually something he's kind of embarrassed about. (But he's always ready for another round way faster than should be possible.)


	2. Mistake (Viktor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He screwed up, and he doesn’t yet know how badly. What he does know is that watching Yuuri attempt the quad flip just minutes after begging Viktor to stay with him had made his heart stop. For the second time, he’d sworn he heard Yuuri speaking to him directly with his skating: Look at me. You’re right here inside me, and I need you. And just like before, Viktor couldn’t stop himself. He’d reacted on instinct.
> 
> He’d flown across the ice, closed his eyes, and (spectators be damned) kissed Yuuri.
> 
> And then had instantly regretted it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your kudos, bookmarks and comments! I hope you'll enjoy this chapter as well. The first bit of this chapter is a little dense because it's Viktor's intro chapter and I felt like I needed to really establish where his head was at prior to the events of this story. I did my best to balance it with dialogue in the later parts.
> 
> I realized after the fact that I made some real-world timeline mistakes regarding the Cup of China's typical schedule of events, so I had to go back to the first chapter and switch out the bit about CoC's banquet for a more informal dinner hosted by Phichit. It doesn't really affect the story, but if you read Chapter 1 before I made the edits, you might be a little confused here.
> 
> This chapter is 99.7% smut-free. (Sorry?)

Viktor had always been characterized as a flirt, and maybe that wasn’t _exactly_ wrong. He was free with his winks, his smiles, and he always had a kind word ready for a fan. But that’s usually as far as it ever went. He might be flirty, but he drew the line at physical contact.

It wasn’t like hadn’t had partners in the past. He wasn’t _dead._ But they had been short-lived, casual flings -- mutually agreed-upon relationships of convenience -- and any physicality had been reserved almost exclusively for the bedroom. There was nothing especially _loving_ about the way he touched any of his previous partners. It was all physical desire and lust that dissipated the moment the act was over. And even then, his ten fingers were more than enough to count the number of people with whom he’d been briefly involved.

Still, everyone assumed otherwise, and Viktor never really had any reason to correct the gossip writers and sports newscasters.

But Yuuri is different. Viktor _wants_ to touch Yuuri. _Needs_ to. And it’s so much more than the kind of touches he’d used in bed in the past.

(Though he wants that, too.)

From the moment Yuuri had drunkenly approached him at the GPF banquet, Viktor found himself daydreaming about holding his hand, stroking his hair while he dozed, placing a hand on his hip while they skated laps side by side. Even long after the banquet, though Yuuri never reached out to him again, Viktor remained fixated on the idea of getting closer to him. He’d created his entire free skate for the season based on that one blinding obsession alone.

Then one day, someone sent him a link to a video of the Japanese skater who had fallen off the face of the Earth, and he was skating Viktor’s program. It was like he was calling for Viktor, and the Russian responded accordingly. He _had_ to touch Yuuri, as soon as possible and for as long as Yuuri would allow it.

He’d called a travel agent the moment the video ended.

During his first night in Hasetsu, he hadn’t even hesitated. He’d skated his fingers along Yuuri’s jawline and ran his hand down the length of Yuuri’s arm and hand, a silent plea accompanying the vocal request that they get to know each other better. Showing restraint hadn’t even crossed his mind, because why would it? Viktor had been aching to be close enough to touch for _so_ long, and he thought Yuuri felt the same. After all, Yuuri was the one who’d pulled him close during their dance battle, the one who’d flung his arms around Viktor and looked up at him with those big, brown eyes. Yuuri was the one who’d skated the Russian’s program so full of love, the one who had _called_ Viktor to his side.

But Yuuri had recoiled instantly, and then completely rejected Viktor’s request to sleep in the same bed. Viktor had taken it to the core, had used Makkachin’s fur to muffle sad sniffs and dry the tears that pricked the corners of his eyes that night. He’d tossed and turned until morning trying to figure out what had gone wrong. By the time the sun came up, he still wasn’t sure. But he knew he wouldn’t give up.

Maybe he didn’t know how. Or maybe it wasn’t an option for him. Not anymore. He’d come too far and, truthfully, he wasn’t accustomed to not getting what he wanted.

Still, whenever Viktor reached out, the Japanese skater would go completely stiff. The day Viktor debuted his choreography for Yuuri and Yurio stood out especially. He’d skated in close to and run a thumb over Yuuri’s bottom lip, their faces just millimeters apart, to make a veiled request that Yuuri hurry and show Viktor the passion he’d been craving since their encounter

in Sochi. Yuuri had looked like he was going to cry, or scream, or maybe faint. That reaction, and all the other ones like it, had hurt.

So when Yuuri hugged him for the first time without warning, right before he took to the ice during his exhibition match with Yurio, Viktor was shocked. And overjoyed. But mostly, he was so unprepared that he forgot to hug back -- something he remedied as soon as Yuuri returned to the boards after his performance. Yuuri had still tensed a little then, but he’d also thanked Viktor.

Later, on the podium, Viktor had tentatively put an arm around him and softly squeezed -- a silent encouragement -- and Yuuri had relaxed into it.

And that was when Viktor learned that he had to let Yuuri take the lead. Yuuri had to be the one to decide what was acceptable, and when. Boundaries had to be overcome on Yuuri’s terms; anything else guaranteed Yuuri’s retreat.

From then on, Viktor never touched Yuuri in a way Yuuri had not himself initiated at some point prior. (Or at least _almost_ never.)

He couldn’t pretend it wasn’t frustrating sometimes. Progress was often painfully slow, but it was better than nothing. Viktor found low-stake opportunities to test the waters, and bit by bit Yuuri was opening himself up to his Russian coach. That in and of itself was satisfying.

When Yuuri declared during a press conference that Viktor was the first person he’d ever wanted to hold on to, Viktor felt like his patience was being rewarded and recommitted himself to staying the course.

It didn’t stop him from dreaming, though. He’d touched Yuuri’s lips with his fingers a hundred times and imagined what it would be like to press his own lips against them a thousand. But he wouldn’t do that; doing so would go completely against his current strategy. It would make all of his efforts meaningless.

So Viktor had been waiting. He'd been patient. And then he stupidly threw all of his self-control to the wayside.

 _...the consequence of which was the exact worst-case scenario I’d been trying to avoid_ , he thinks to himself as he slumps against his hotel room door.

Viktor doesn’t even try to stifle the defeated sigh that follows. He screwed up, and he doesn’t yet know how badly. What he does know is that watching Yuuri attempt the quad flip just minutes after begging Viktor to stay with him had made his heart stop. For the second time, he’d sworn he heard Yuuri speaking to him directly with his skating: _Look at me. You’re right here inside me, and I need you._ And just like before, Viktor couldn’t stop himself. He’d reacted on instinct.

He’d flown across the ice, closed his eyes, and (spectators be damned) kissed Yuuri.

And then had instantly regretted it.

“He _hated_ it,” Viktor mumbles into the empty hotel room, recalling the way every muscle in Yuuri’s body had gone rigid the moment their lips touched.

Viktor tries to put it out of his mind for the moment; he pushes himself off of the door and goes about the task of undressing himself. First the gloves, then the scarf followed by his trench coat. He removes each piece of clothing one by one and stores them, folds them, or hangs them with a meticulous attention to detail. No seam is out of place and no wrinkles to be found. When he has divested himself of every last article save his underwear, he enters the bathroom. A hot bath always helps him clear his mind. It’s a far cry from Yuuri’s family’s hot springs, but it will have to do.

While he waits for the bath to fill, he retrieves his phone and sits on the edge of the tub absentmindedly opening app after app. Nothing holds his interest and he quickly exhausts all of his options except for the one he’s purposefully been avoiding.

He opens his browser and taps the search bar.

**Cup of China Yuuri Katsuki**

Immediately, he gets headline after headline and almost every single one is about their kiss on the ice. Yuuri’s actual performance, his epic comeback, _his silver medal finish_... they’re all secondary information buried in the bottom paragraphs of each article. A frown tugs at the corners of Viktor’s mouth; he hadn’t intended to upstage Yuuri this way. That performance deserved so much more attention than it’s getting.

But there, in every article he scans, is the photographic evidence (at every angle imaginable) that he’s been too afraid to look at until now.

In every photo, Viktor’s eyes are closed and Yuuri’s are wide open, the absolute picture of shock.

_See? He’s terrified._

* * *

 

Viktor is soaking with his eyes closed and his head leaned back against the tile when he hears his phone buzz from its perch on the back of the toilet. He takes a moment to dry his hands and then reaches for it. The display simply reads, “Christophe.” He lets his thumb hover over the red decline button, unsure if he feels up for a chat. His thumbs betray his heart though, and he picks up the call.

“Hi~,” he sing-songs after putting the call on speaker and placing the phone safely back in its place. He sounds ridiculous given his mood, but it’s how he would usually answer.

There’s a long, thoughtful silence on the other end.

“...you’re a terrible actor, Viktor,” a deep, silky voice finally says. “What’s wrong?”

_Am I really so obvious? How unpleasant._

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Viktor replies, closing his eyes as sinks down into the water again to let the waterline lap at his collarbones.

“And a terrible liar, to boot.”

“Did you call to flatter me, Chris? Because you’re doing a terrible job.”

Chris chuckles, and Viktor swears he can _hear_ a smirk coming through the speaker.

“You might say that. I was only wondering when you might be joining tonight’s festivities. I’m dying to have a drink with you, Viktor. It’s been too long since we’ve gone out together.”

“Because we always get into trouble when we do,” Viktor retorts.

“Hence why I’m so eager.”

Viktor can’t help the ghosting of a smile that crosses his lips even though he stubbornly wishes he could. It feels more appropriate to wallow in his guilt at the moment; even a moment of humor feels irresponsible. Viktor should be reflecting on his behavior, not making pleasantries with the Swiss skater.

“I won’t be coming, I’m afraid,” he says. “So you’ll have to find trouble without me this time.”

“That’s so _boring_ ,” Chris whines.

“Apologies.”

“Well, I suppose that means I’ll have to liquor up Yuuri on my own, then. If it’s anything like Sochi, I’m sure to have a good time. Maybe he’ll let me in on how he managed to seduce a world champion. I could use some pointers. Or maybe he’ll beg for _me_ to be his coach this time?”

“He’s not going either,” Viktor says flatly, not at all amused by the mental image of Yuuri flinging himself at Chris. “Or at least, I told him not to. He’s had a hard day, so I told him we’d skip it.”

“I see,” Chris purrs. “Celebrating in private, then? Well, that’s to be expected of new lovers, I suppose.”

Viktor sits up with a start. It’s too fast and entirely ungraceful: his legs unstick from the bottom of the tub and slide out from under him. His hands flail and fail to find purchase before he slips down a little too far into the bathwater, accidentally swallowing a mouthful. He comes up sputtering and coughing. Chris laughs on the other end of the call as if he just _knows_ what happened.

“ _Christophe,”_ the Russian warns once he’s able to compose himself. Each French syllable is accented perfectly for poignancy.

“ _Viktor_ ” Chris responds, mocking Viktor’s sharpness with an equally native Russian inflection.

“He’s not my lover. We aren’t a couple. We’ve been over this.”

“But that was _before._ ”

“Nothing has changed.”

“Hmm? You say that, but it sure didn’t look that way on the ice today,” Chris says.

“He’s _not_ my lover,” Viktor repeats

”But you want him to be.”

It’s not a question. Viktor says nothing.

“Ah,” Chris croons. “So that’s it.”

“What is?”

“Why you’re so depressed.”

“I’m _not_ depressed,” Viktor counters.

“Again, you’re a terrible liar. He rejected you, didn’t he?”

Viktor sighs and grips the edge of the tub to help himself stand. The water is starting to go cold and his near-drowning just now has made any attempt at relaxation impossible.

“But how can that be?” Chris wonders out loud. “I saw you two exchange words right after you threw yourself at him. He looked positively captivated.”

“He was _relieved_ , I think,” Viktor says as he steps out and pulls the drain.

“What do you mean?”

“The _instant_ I kissed him, I could feel his whole body tense up and I _knew_ I’d made a mistake.”

Chris’ silence urges Viktor on. “He didn’t kiss me back, Chris. He didn’t even put his arms around me willingly; it was just instinct once I was on top of him. I was kissing him, but it was like kissing the _ice_. Frigid. Not pliable at _all_. Once I’d done it, the only thing I could think about was to wonder what kind of face he was going to make when I pulled back.”

“And what kind of face did he make?”

“He looked so confused. Dazed, like he was thinking a million things at once. He’s always thinking too much.”

“Like someone else I know,” Chris teases under his breath.

Viktor pretends not to hear as he takes a fresh white towel from the rack and dries himself. But the words continue to come up his throat like a rolling wave, and Chris is offering a friendly ear, so he lets all of them out.

“I panicked. It’s _Yuuri,_ so I knew he would worry himself to death trying to figure out how to respond without hurting me. He’s so _good_ like that. But he shouldn’t have to shoulder that. It’s too heavy for him right now. He’d already been through so much, and I completely messed up. I rushed. I’ve been doing my best _not_ to rush, but... well. You saw. I’m supposed to be his support, but I made him more anxious. So I came up with an excuse off the top of my head -- said I just wanted to surprise him the way he surprised me. And then, the _cruelest_ part, he _smiled_ at me like I’d lifted the _world_ off of his shoulders. That’s how happy he was to hear that there wasn’t anything more to it.”

“But there _was_ more to it, and now you’re hurting,” Chris says gently.

“I couldn’t _help_ it,” Viktor agrees. “You saw him skate, right? He was so _beautiful_ , and I could _hear_ him talking to me, like he was whispering in my ear. I swear I did. At least I _thought_ I did. I wanted to, maybe. But I was utterly wrong. I’ve _been_ utterly wrong this whole time.”

He pauses to allow himself an indulgent groan. “And even though he looked relieved after I _lied_ to him, he’s been completely inside his own head since then. He’s been quieter than usual and dazed and fidgety and so _obviously_ bothered by it. I told him not to worry about it, but of course he will because that’s what he _does_. God, Chris. What am I going to _do_?”

Viktor is sitting on the edge of the tub again, one elbow on his knee and his head dipped down so he can fist his hand into his hair, now limp from the humidity that still hangs in the air. Chris doesn’t answer his question.

“I shouldn’t have done it,” he whispers, mostly to himself.

“Shouldn’t have kissed him, or shouldn’t have lied to him about _why_ you kissed him?” Chris pushes.

“Either. Both? I don’t know,” Viktor sighs.

“You’ve got it bad, huh?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Viktor affirms as if he’s annoyed by the fact.

“I don’t blame you. He _is_ beautiful.”

Victor groans again.

“Poor dear,” Chris coos into the phone. “All of the press you get for being a such a high-caliber Lothario, but you’re just as clueless as he is when it comes to love, hm?”

“Chris.”

“Yes?”

“You aren’t helping.”

Chris titters lightly into the phone. “I’m sorry. You know I jest.”

He knows. But he also knows that Chris isn’t entirely wrong.

Viktor picks up the phone and brings it with him as he exits the bathroom. He places it gently on a long table that sits in front of a mirror just across from his bed. There, he places both palms flat against the tabletop and flexes his arms until his shoulders are raised and his limbs are locked straight. He takes a long look at himself, tracing the features of his flushed face with his eyes.

_I’ve been too arrogant. I’ve just been assuming Yuuri would come around eventually but..._

He hesitates to give life to what follows but ultimately decides to test it out on his lips.

“What if... he shuts me out completely now?”

“He won’t,” Chris says plainly, immediately.

“He might. I don’t think I’d be able to bear it, but I couldn’t blame him either.

“He won’t,” Chris insists.

“How do you know?”

“Just a feeling,” Chris admits, his voice thick with soothing affection. “But I’m eerily intuitive about people.”

Sea blue eyes drop from the mirror to the backs of his hands. An appreciative, almost warm smile irons out the downward curve of his lips. Chris is a good friend. He knows when to use humor and when to listen and when to appease. Viktor isn’t convinced, but he does feel somewhat allayed. And putting his fears and doubts into actual words has been at least a little cathartic.

But truth be told, he’s tired now and wants nothing more than let sleep ease the sickly lump he has felt in his chest since the moment he laid lips on that dark-haired skater.

“Enjoy your evening out,” Viktor says. It’s abrupt on purpose because Chris is the kind of person who never hangs up first. “Send my apologies to everyone. Yuuri’s too.”

“Oh? Are we done here?” Chris asks, his demeanor shifting immediately. His usual mirth is back.

“For now, anyway,” Viktor says, and then, softer, “Thank you, Chris.”

“Of course, my dear. But I am still disappointed that you won’t be joining us, and I expect you to make it up to me. I insist that you do so in Barcelona, so your boy had better be in top form for Moscow. Am I clear?”

“Crystal.”

* * *

 

Viktor climbs into bed and leans across the mattress to turn off the lamp on the bedside table. His smartphone’s display glows in the darkness as he scrolls backward through his camera roll. It’s a ritual he’s performed every night since he first flew to Yuuri’s side.

Yuuri laughing nervously during his press conference. Yuuri with Phichit, each biting the other’s medal. Yuuri flashing a peace sign while Chris stands next to him, winking at Viktor. Yuuri taking his starting position for his free skate, hands held open, head bowed, eyes closed. Yuuri lacing his skates, his eyes glazed over. Yuuri, a blur as he does a triple axel jump on the mat during warm-ups. Yuuri with a shy smile for Viktor as he skates by the boards during a public practice. A photo he’d requested from Phichit featuring a shirtless Viktor wrapped around a red-faced Yuuri who is obviously begging Phichit not to take the shot. A selfie he took with Yuuri right after they’d heard the scores from his short program -- their cheeks are pressed together and Yuuri is genuinely smiling.

He stops on this one and pinches his fingers together, then drags them outward to enlarge Yuuri’s face.

“ _God_ ,” he whispers bringing a finger to his lips. He squirms under the sheets.

The light friction of linen against him makes him _acutely_ aware of how naked he is. And Yuuri’s flushed face is right here in front of him, smiling like that and...

Viktor rolls onto his left side, one hand holding his phone and the other gripping his length. He can’t help himself, doesn’t even try. When it comes to Yuuri, it seems Viktor has used up all of his self-control.

 _That’s the problem,_ he thinks. But it’s a problem he’ll have to solve later. Right now, there’s something else he needs to tend to.

Just as he sucks in a breath to take the first, long stroke, a message notification covers the top of Yuuri’s face.

 

 **[Yuuri]** Sorry to bother you. What time should I be ready tomorrow? I forgot to ask. Sorry again.

 

Viktor’s stomach drops the moment his eyes scan the name.

_What the-- What kind of timing is this, Yuuri?_

His cheeks are burning; he promptly releases himself and sets to typing. Yuuri will almost certainly convince himself that Viktor is upset and ignoring him if he takes too long to reply.

 

 **[Viktor]** You aren’t bothering me, don’t apologize! 

 **[Viktor]** I’ll come get you @ 7:00.

 **[Viktor]** There are some informal press events and morning practice before the Gala in the afternoon.

 **[Viktor]** Let’s have breakfast together before then.

 **[Yuuri]** OK.

 

Viktor licks his lips, waiting to see if there’s more. A minute passes. There isn’t. He ventures an attempt at light banter to assure Yuuri that everything is fine.

 

 **[Viktor]** Be sure to eat something before you go to bed. You could use the calories.

 **[Viktor]** You have my permission to be a little indulgent as long as it’s not katsudon.

 **[Viktor]** That’s only for gold.

 

He adds a silver medal emoji to the end of the last one and sends it. Almost immediately, he gets a reply: a photo of the room service Yuuri has apparently already ordered and received. A line of six grilled pot stickers and an order of sauteed pork and thinly sliced green peppers in a thick brown sauce. Viktor chuckles to himself. It’s not katsudon, but it’s still pork.

 _More importantly, this feels... normal,_ Viktor notes.

He’s about to type a teasing message about Yuuri’s choice of menu (he’s searching for the pig emoji) when Yuuri replies first.

 

 **[Yuuri]** Good night.

 

Viktor stares at the two words blankly for a full minute, gutted. He doesn’t know how to interpret this at all. Texting is awful that way. His only safe move is to respond in kind.

 

 **[Viktor]** Good night, Yuuri.

 

He turns off the display and rolls over onto his stomach, letting his phone drop gently to the carpeted floor. With his face buried deep into his pillow, Viktor lets loose a long, frustrated grunt. He makes no attempt to touch himself again

* * *

 

Although he’d been pushy about Yuuri getting enough rest, Viktor is the one with bags under his eyes. He slept, but not well. His dreams were an endless loop of every instance in which Yuuri had rejected his advances and he woke up at the top of nearly every hour feeling like his heart had been ripped out of his chest. Each time, it took longer to calm himself enough to fall back into the lull of sleep. By the time the night sky turned into that deep shade of navy that precedes sunrise, he was wide awake and exhausted.

He picks up his phone to find a message from Chris with an impossibly early time stamp... which means he stayed out all night and early into the morning.

 

 **[Christophe]** Front page of today’s sports section, hot off the press. You’re famous, baby!

 

The photo attached is of a newspaper, unfolded to show a half-page close-up of Living Legend Viktor Nikiforov locking lips with Cup of China silver medalist Katsuki Yuuri. Viktor can’t read the headline, but he doesn’t really have to. He can make an educated guess about what it says: “Scandal on Ice! Nikiforov and Katsuki’s Love Affair” or “The Kiss Seen ‘Round the World!” or something as equally tacky.

He taps out his reply like he’s trying to crush ants under his thumbs.

 

 **[Viktor]** Sometimes you make it very difficult to like you.

 

Chris’ immediate reply is a selfie in which he’s blowing a kiss, one long-lashed eye winking suggestively. Viktor sends a selfie back, his puffy eyes stern and his mouth twisted with disapproval. He follows it with a text.

 

 **[Viktor]** Did you even sleep?

 **[Christophe]** My god, did -you-?

 

Viktor gets out of bed to rummage his luggage for eye cream.

* * *

 

At 7:00 AM sharp, Viktor knocks lightly on Yuuri’s door with the back of a gloved hand. He shifts on his feet and gives his hair a smoothing over with the same hand. He’s _nervous_ to see what kind of state Yuuri is in _._

The door opens inward after a beat, revealing Yuuri in a short-sleeved black v-neck Viktor loves and a black pair of skating pants. His glasses are slightly askew, his hair is soft and sticking up every which way, and his toothbrush is hanging out of the left side of his mouth. He is adorable.

_It’s not fair. None of this is fair._

“Morning,” Yuuri says simply, though the toothbrush garbles it. He takes it out and flashes Viktor a small, apologetic smile. “I’m almost ready, I swear. Sorry. I slept really hard and didn’t hear my alarm at first. My things are already packed for the exhibition, though.”

_He’s... okay? He looks well rested and in good spirits? Talkative, even._

Viktor blinks, unsure what to do. He’d been expecting a panicked mess, not this. But Yuuri looks... is acting... completely normal. Better than, maybe. He’s calm and composed, a possibility Viktor had not even thought to prepare for. Was all of his worrying unnecessary? Had he overestimated his ability to affect the younger skater? Was this whole thing really... nothing to Yuuri?

That stings, too.

 _You can’t have it both ways,_ Viktor chides silently.

“It’s fine,” Viktor says, stepping inside when Yuuri makes way for him. “We have time.”

Yuuri trots away to spit and rinse his mouth. “I feel bad for making you wait for me, though,” he calls from bathroom between gargles.

“I’ll wait as long as it takes.”

He _will._

What other choice does he have?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Next time:**  
>  It's been three days since they returned to Hasetsu, and things are... mostly normal. Yuuri and Viktor resume their usual routine; they train and rehearse during the day, eat lunch with Yuuri's family, enjoy evening walks with Makkachin after dinner. But they don't talk about China. And Viktor, Yuuri notes, has been keeping his distance.  
> \--
> 
> Thank you for reading! From here on out, the plot should start moving along a bit faster. Some chapters will cover an episode and others will cover multiple episodes. I appreciate any and all feedback either here or over at [my tumblr](http://www.hanarezu-ni.tumblr.com)! 
> 
> In general, I am (was?) not the biggest fan of Chris, but writing this chapter sort of made me love him a little. I wasn't even planning on featuring him initially, but once I toyed with it, I really enjoyed writing him. Chris is the BEST friend and really helped me not get too moody while I wrote. 
> 
> Also, stressed-out Viktor tends to word vomit and puts emphasis on a LOT of words. He's very dramatic. I don't think I've ever used italics this much when writing a character. 
> 
> I noted at the top that this chapter was pretty much smut free. Next chapter definitely won't be. (You're welcome?)


	3. Misdeed (Yuuri)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Viktor!” Yuuri hisses through the pain. He lifts his shoulders as much as he can to look down his nose at the Russian who is now hovering over his hips
> 
> Viktor’s eyes are slits, barely open, but Yuuri can see the gleam of blue peek through, glazed over and heavy. He takes in the way Viktor’s pink lips turn up in a dreamy smirk. He’s beautiful. He looks hungry. Yuuri can’t breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The music Yuuri uses in this chapter is "O mio babbino caro" ("Oh My Beloved Father") from the 1918 Puccini opera _Gianni Schicchi_. The music is linked in the first paragraph of the chapter (with an English translation of the lyrics). I'll link relevant Wikipedia pages in the end notes.
> 
> This chapter is over 6k words! I don't know if that's the new normal or not. The previous two hovered a little past 4k. But each chapter is going to cover a lot more ground now, so...? Enjoy the longer chapter(s)?
> 
> As always, thanks for all the feedback, kudos and bookmarks. I love comments especially! Feedback makes me eager to keep going!

Yuuri grabs the blade of his skate; slowly and deliberately, he brings his free leg up and behind his head. His back curves into a dramatic arch to form a perfect teardrop in the space between. As the spin winds down, he drops his leg and stretches one arm up, hand reaching skyward. [The music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tse6d1netXE) ends, leaving Yuuri in his final pose -- on his knees with his back hunched forward, head bowed, and shoulders raised as he stretches his arms out longingly before him with elegantly pointed index fingers.

He holds for a three-count and then lets his muscles relax. And then he waits.

Viktor leans back on the boards opposite from where Yuuri stands, his elbows and forearms tucked behind him to steady his stance on the ice. His head is tipped to one side in thought, silver locks draped over the left side of his face.

He says nothing, so Yuuri is forced to ask. “How was it?”

Viktor sighs gently and straightens his back. “It wasn’t bad.”

Yuuri frowns. “That’s it? No lecture? No pointers?”

Viktor smiles, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s just an exhibition skate, after all. It doesn’t have to be perfect. If you enjoy it, then isn’t that enough?”

“You’re the one who scolded me for not giving it my all up to now,” Yuuri retorts. He points a finger and touches it to his lips. “’Even if it’s just for show, you should always skate like it’s a competition, even if you're only competing with yourself,’” he quotes, mimicking the particular accent that clings to Viktor’s words.

Viktor chuckles. “Did I say that?”

“You did.”

“I don’t remember,” Viktor feigns.

“You definitely said it. Right before China.”

There’s a pause that lasts a beat too long, putting Yuuri on edge. He immediately regrets saying it.

It's been three days since they returned to Hasetsu, and things are... mostly normal. Yuuri and Viktor have resumed their usual routine: they train and rehearse during the day, eat lunch with Yuuri's family, go running or stop by Minako-sensei’s studio in the afternoon, enjoy evening walks with Makkachin after dinner while they chat congenially. But they don't talk about China.

And Viktor, Yuuri notes, has been keeping his distance. He doesn’t freely touch Yuuri the way he had before, the absence of which has left Yuuri a little unsettled.

“Ah. Well then,” Viktor finally says, “if you really want the lecture...”

“Please.”

“Fine. But I don’t sound like that,” he pouts.

Yuuri can't help but smirk.

“Tell me why you chose this music,” Viktor says.

Yuuri licks his chapped lips and thinks back to his days as a junior skater. This was the music he’d used for his short program the first time he won at Nationals when he was still a lanky young teen, not yet eligible for the senior division. It was the first time he’d felt like he might catch up to Viktor someday. But also, it was something to a tribute to Viktor, unbeknownst to anyone but Yuuri.

“I won my first national junior title with this song. So I just... thought I’d bring it back this season and update the choreography. It feels nostalgic, and it’s the program that really... made me think I could actually, you know... be a skater. ”

“If you won a medal with it, you already _were_ a skater. You’ve _always_ been a skater, Yuuri.”

“You know what I mean. It’s the first time I felt really proud of myself. The first time I felt like I could compete internationally. It solidified my love.” He coughs. “For the sport, I mean.”

“There it is,” Viktor says, pointing a finger to Yuuri from across the ice.

“What?”

“ _Love_. Do you know what this song is about? It’s about love. It’s about not wanting to be separated from someone. It’s someone begging unabashedly to be allowed to remain beside the person you love, even if everyone is against it, even if you come from two different worlds. It’s loving someone so much that it’s _painful,_ so much that you’d rather _die_ than be without them _.”_

Yuuri knew. When his coach had suggested the aria, Yuuri fell in love with the yearning he heard in every pleading word (although he hadn’t understood any of it). But it wasn’t until he’d looked up a translation of the lyrics that he knew he wanted to use it. In his early teenage fantasies, it was exactly how he felt about his desperation to reach the place where Viktor was.

 _Not that I can say that to him,_ Yuuri thinks.

So he just nods.

“If we’re talking about the technical elements, there’s nothing wrong with this program,” the Russian continues. “Yuuri, you’re the kind of skater that makes music and tells stories with your body. Every movement is expressive and intentional. That’s why no one can ever look away from you. But you look _bored_ when you skate this.”

“Bored.”

“ _Positively_ bored. You don’t look like someone who is fighting for love. You look like you’ve given up on love entirely.”

 _You’ve hit the nail on the head._ Yuuri’s face is burning. So is his chest. He clenches his teeth, resisting the urge to spit venom. _Why do you think that is_ , _Viktor? Whose fault is if I **have** given up?_

“And that’s why it’s just ‘not bad.’ But you’re better than that,” Viktor says, his voice poignantly low.

It’d be easy to give in to his irritation, but Yuuri swallows the bitterness he feels bubbling up into his throat. He skates toward Viktor, who is holding out his water bottle like he _knows_ Yuuri needs to wash it down.

“Thanks,” Yuuri mumbles as he takes the bottle and guzzles. Once he’s gulped down a mouthful, he wipes his mouth with the back of one gloved hand. “Are there any specific parts that stand out as being particularly... lacking?”

Viktor hums in thought. “Your starting pose, for one.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“It looks lazy. There’s no intensity to it, and you look defeated before the music even starts. The point of the Gala is to entertain. If you come off as uninterested, what makes you think anyone else will enjoy watching it?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Here,” Viktor says, finally pushing himself off the wall. He glides a few feet out and motions for Yuuri to follow. “Get into your starting position.”

Yuuri does as he’s told, drifting from the boards to take up his pose in front of his coach. One leg goes back, toe pointed into the ice. He arches his back slightly and turns his head right before dipping it back to follow his body line. He holds his hands over his heart, right over left, raising both elbows until they are parallel to the ice.

“See? It’s sloppy.”

Yuuri rolls his eyes just discreetly enough that Viktor won’t see it. Obviously, he can’t see himself. “How so?” he asks without falling out of position.

“Like you aren’t engaging your muscles at all. Are you getting ready to beg for your love, or are you going to take a nap while your father sends your man away?” Viktor skates a circle around the Japanese skater, considering all angles, and stops behind him, standing just to the left. “Lengthen your neck and arch your back more.”

Yuuri tilts his chin even further until he feels the sinews in his neck pull with tension. He sticks his stomach out.

“Not like that,” Viktor insists.

Yuuri sticks his stomach out further.

“Don’t stick your stomach _out,_ Yuuri. Suck it in. Think about your whole line. Your back. Your butt. Your hips. You look rounded when you should look... sharper.”

“I don’t--”

“Like _this,”_ Viktor interrupts. Without warning, Viktor moves in to correct Yuuri’s pose. He presses one hand into to the small of Yuuri’s back and pushes his pelvis in with the other.

Save for a hand on the shoulder while talking to sponsors or an arm around his shoulders for photographers, it’s the first time Viktor has really touched him since he cupped Yuuri’s face outside of his hotel room. Not expecting or anticipating it, Yuuri jumps and yelps simultaneously, causing the leg where he is bearing all of his weight to slip out from underneath him.

Gravity takes over and he can feel himself pitch backward. On instinct, he grabs at Viktor’s shirt for support but ends up pulling his coach down, too. They crash together in a mess of arms and legs, Yuuri on his back and Viktor on his side. Yuuri tucks his chin to avoid smacking the back of his head onto the ice.

“Yuuri,” Viktor says without moving.

“Sorry! I’m sorry! Are you okay? Oh my god. Viktor?” Yuuri is already scrambling to his knees, paying careful attention to where his blades are.

“I’m fine,” Viktor says with a smile as he rolls onto his back. “I’m the one who should apologize. I startled you.”

“N...no, I just... sorry! Are you sure you’re okay?” He’s on his feet now, looking down into the older man’s face.

Viktor closes his eyes for a moment like he’s taking a mental inventory of all of his parts, then opens them again and reaches one hand up.

“Perfect,” he says. “Now help an old man up.”

Yuuri takes his hand and helps Viktor to his feet, but drops his grip the moment he’s sure his coach can move on his own.

“Maybe we should stop here for today,” Viktor says, brushing the ice shavings from his clothing. “It’s almost time for dinner, and Makkachin will be waiting for us. And I could use a soak. I have a feeling I’ll have a bruise or two tomorrow.”

It’d been raining on and off all day, making an afternoon run risky, and Minako-sensei hadn’t been available. They had returned to Ice Castle for Yuuri to work on his exhibition program in lieu of their typical afternoon activities. But the sky is turning darker by the minute, and Yuuri is suddenly feeling extremely self-conscious.

He nods. “Good idea.”

* * *

 

The rain seems to have stopped for the night; during their walk home, clouds give way to the first stars of the evening. The evening air is still heavy with cold and moisture, but it smells fresh. The two men walk side by side in silence, both with their hands stuffed into coat pockets.

“Yuuri,” Viktor says at length.

“Hm?”

“What do you think about changing your exhibition for the Final?”

“Huh?”

“Your current program is fine, but what about doing something completely different just for the Final’s Gala event?”

“Assuming I even make it to the Final,” Yuuri starts.

“You will,” Viktor interrupts.

Yuuri glances up to find Viktor looking back at him. The Russian gives him a knowing nod.

“But why? We already have so much to rehearse,” Yuuri says.

“That’s true, but wouldn’t it be a surprise for everyone? And I was thinking... maybe the reason this one isn’t clicking is that you just don’t... _identify_ with it.”

Yuuri looks up into the night sky to search out the moon. _You’re wrong. I identify with it more than I’d like to._

 _“_ What else would I skate to?”

Viktor opens his mouth to say something but seems to think better of whatever it is. He clears his throat. “Just think of something that would really wow the audience. Something unexpected. Something personal to you right _now._ ”

Yuuri mulls is over for a moment, but nothing comes to mind. “I’ll have to think about it.”

“There’s still time,” Viktor says. “But if you do decide to change it, you’ll have to start practicing right after we return from Russia.”

“Sure,” Yuuri says.

* * *

 

Since their return to Japan, Yuuri hasn’t bathed with Viktor. His private embarrassment over his huge miscalculation in China has made being that unguarded difficult, like he’d be setting himself up to misread Viktor all over again. He doesn’t think he’d survive that a second time. Viktor hasn’t hounded him about going in together like he used to, either. Between that and their mutual silence about their televised kiss, Yuuri knows he is right to set some new boundaries.

That’s why Yuuri tells Viktor to go in first and offers to walk Makkachin on his own in the meantime. Viktor obliges, and Yuuri takes the poodle down narrow alleyways where he can vent to the dog in private. When they return, Viktor is sitting in the common room dressed in a clean yukata. A bottle of sake and accompanying cup is set on the table before him and he’s showing Mari an album of candid photos he covertly took of Yurio over the past year and a half with his phone. She squeals at every picture.

“Welcome back,” the Russian greets first, looking up from his phone when Yuuri and Makkachin enter the room. His face is flushed from the alcohol or the bath, or both. Makkachin leaps at his master and is rewarded with a ruffle behind shaggy ears.

Yuuri waves a greeting back and slips off for a long soak in the hot springs, where he does his best not to endlessly reimagine the warmth and weight of Viktor’s hands on him during their evening skating session.

(He fails.)

The contrast between the hot water and the cold night air eventually helps him quiet his mind. He can feel the tension leave his shoulders and back, but he loses track of how long he’s been in the water. By the time he returns to the common area in a t-shirt and lounge shorts, Viktor is curled up on the tatami, using his cushion as a pillow. His eyes are closed and his lax mouth hangs open as he breaths at a slow, even pace. Makkachin is curled up near his feet but lifts his head when Yuuri approaches.

“He fell asleep about ten minutes ago,” Yuuri’s mother says as she enters the room with a tray. “He hasn’t even had dinner yet, the poor thing. It’s not good to skip meals.”

“We’re still trying to get over the jet lag,” Yuuri says, helping his mother remove two bowls of rice and a variety of side dishes from the tray. “And I’m sure the bath and the alcohol didn’t help.”

“He insisted on a drink after his bath. He seemed a little stressed,” his mother says as she picks up the sake cup and bottle. Her eyebrows shoot up as she shakes the bottle. Not a drop left.

Yuuri steals a worried glance in the sleeping Russian’s direction.

“I’ll wake him up in a little while,” he assures her. “For now, let’s just let him nap for a bit. I kind of pulled him along with extra practice today.”

She smiles warmly at him and pushes Yuuri’s bangs back from where they’ve plastered to his forehead. “You two are working so hard, aren’t you?”

Yuuri only smiles back.

“Just leave the dishes when you’ve finished,” his mother says. “I’ll take care of them later. You two get a good night’s rest.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

She places a hand on his head for a moment and then shuffles back the way she came. Makkachin gets to his feet and trots after her expectantly.

Yuuri sinks down quietly onto the cushion next to his sleeping coach and puts his hands together in thanks for the food. After he finishes half of his rice, Yuuri places his bowl and chopsticks on the table and gently pats Viktor’s shoulder.

“Viktor, dinner.”

“Mm.”

Yuuri waits, but Viktor makes no sign of waking.

“Viktor,” he says a little firmer. “You should eat.”

“....-ri?”

“Your food will get cold.”

Suddenly, there’s a shuffle of fabric, a scrape of knees on dry straw, a head of silver resting on his thigh, and an arm wrapped firmly around his waist.

Yuuri’s entire body goes rigid. Viktor turns his face into Yuuri’s hip.

“V-Viktor?”

Viktor mumbles something in Russian with a gentle smile, but never opens his eyes. His body is relaxed, his head heavy like lead in Yuuri’s lap.

_He’s still asleep._

_“Viktor,”_ Yuuri rasps, bending down to the Russian’s ear. Tentatively, he places a hand on Viktor’s shoulder and gives it a gentle shake. “Wake up.”

Viktor grumbles incoherently and buries his face almost painfully into Yuuri where he presses a kiss into the Japanese skater’s hip bone through his clothing. Yuuri sucks in a breath through his teeth.

 _What is he doing?! What do **I**_ _do?!_

Before he can answer his own questions, Yuuri feels fingers at the hem of his shirt, pushing the fabric upward. Suddenly, Viktor is pressing his lips onto the bare skin between half- formed words.

“ _Viktor,”_ Yuuri pleads, voice strained as not to alert anyone who might be close by. But he can’t will himself to physically stop his coach because the feeling is everything Yuuri hasn’t allowed himself to imagine since that confusing night he spent alone in his hotel room. It’s dizzying, and Yuuri thinks it would be so easy to lose himself in it.

Viktor’s fingers creep further into Yuuri’s shirt; they dance along his waist, then his sides, fanning out only when they reach his lower back. In one swift movement that seems impossible for someone who isn’t conscious, the Russian turns himself onto his stomach and snakes his other arm around the dark-haired man before pressing his face into Yuuri’s midsection again. The force causes Yuuri to fall backward for the second time today. This time the back of his head hits the floor. Tatami is more forgiving than ice, but it still smarts.

He’s flat on his back when Viktor shifts, placing a hand on either side of Yuuri before raising his head.

“Viktor!” Yuuri hisses through the pain. He lifts his shoulders as much as he can to look down his nose at the Russian who is now hovering over his hips

Viktor’s eyes are slits, barely open, but Yuuri can see the gleam of blue peek through, glazed over and heavy. He takes in the way Viktor’s pink lips turn up in a dreamy smirk. He’s beautiful. He looks hungry. Yuuri can’t breathe.

And that’s when the lust bubbles up. Suddenly, Yuuri wants nothing more than to take that unguarded handsome face in his hands and bring it up to meet his own with a kiss. To wrap his arms around Viktor’s neck. To allow Viktor to devour him.

_Don’t do that. He’s drunk. He’s drunk and he’s half asleep. He’s drunk. And. He’s. Half. Asleep._

And now he’s palming at Yuuri’s groin and he’s looking at Yuuri directly with those bleary eyes, and Yuuri is reacting.

 _Shit._ He bites his tongue to keep a needy whine from escaping.

The way Yuuri’s eyes close, the way his head tips back and hits the floor again...it’s all completely involuntary. He feels paralyzed by two opposite thoughts: _This is a dream come true_ and _This isn’t right._

Viktor makes the internal debate a moot point. The Russian skater suddenly pauses, his hand still and flat against Yuuri’s shorts. Yuuri knows he should feel relieved, but he doesn’t. As he squirms to lift himself again to inspect his current situation, the wind is knocked out of him. Viktor’s head drops, dead weight against Yuuri’s torso, and a light snore snakes its way out between thinly parted lips.

Yuuri groans for _so_ many reasons.

_Unbelievable._

He finally manages to prop himself up on his forearms and gets a look at Viktor dozing on top of him, silver hair spilling over sharp cheekbones. It’d be picture perfect if not for the bulge that’s still persisting under one perfectly manicured hand.

 _Oh my **god,**_ Yuuri gripes to himself as he scrambles to get out from under his idol.

Viktor hits the floor unceremoniously, but only stirs long enough to roll over onto his side with his back to Yuuri. Or at least Yuuri doesn’t _think_ he woke up. He wouldn’t know because he’s already well on his way to his room where he fully intends to lock the door behind him and curl up in a ball to die.

* * *

 

He curls up, but he doesn’t die. He moans.

Back in his room behind the privacy of a closed door, Yuuri had crumpled down onto the floor against his bed with his knees to his chest and his head to his knees. He’d done his best to steady his breathing and to will the heat from both his cheeks and his loins. He’d _tried._

(He'd failed again.)

Now he sits with his shorts stuffed down around his ankles and his shirt pulled up and bunched tightly across his chest. His knees are bent and his head is dipped back onto his mattress, eyes lidded against the light of the hanging lamp in the center of the ceiling. A small bottle, retrieved from the bottom drawer of his desk, is open and forgotten next to him, the cap having rolled under the bed.

With ragged breaths, Yuuri presses a middle finger into himself with one hand and works his length with the other. His pace is inconsistent, ungraceful even, but the stimulation overloads him easily. Small moans slip out without warning; his body is working itself into a frenzy at a frantic pace.

Frankly, Yuuri is somewhat ashamed at how quickly he defaults to this lately. He feels like a teenager all over again; one thought, one brief and misguided encounter, and suddenly he can’t help himself. He channels his frustration into an agitated groan.

_Let’s just get this over with._

He squirms as he works his finger in as deep as the position will allow and coaxes himself from the inside. Immediately, his body jerks in response.

“Ah, aah.. _Shit_ ,” he wheezes.

The mental reel of Viktor’s hands on him during practice, the one he’d tried desperately to ignore in the bath, is back. Only now it’s spliced together with the feeling of lips along his waistband, lithe fingers brushing his skin, the weight of Viktor’s body, the heat of a palm over the evidence of his eagerness. But the image that keeps coming back to him is the glimpse of Viktor hovering over him. Watery blue orbs glinting out from under heavy lashes. The twinge of thin lips.

“Viktor, _”_ Yuuri gasps as he feels his member pulse in his hand. “ _Fuck.”_

The wave building up inside of him threatens to crest and crash, bringing Yuuri’s self-control with it. He squeezes his legs together as if he’s trying to stop his own hands from moving, but stopping here isn’t an option. With a finger still buried inside, he pumps his erection almost violently, letting the sensations build and layer upon each other until his body snaps.

“Shit... _shit!_ ” he cries through gritted teeth as he quakes. Streams of white coat his stomach and thighs as he rides out his orgasm.

When he shudders for the last time, all strength escapes him and he goes limp from head to toe. Only the bed frame keeps him upright.

“Shit,” he says again, panting.

Yuuri waits for his breathing to settle before he starts to worry about cleaning himself up. Just as his gasps even out, he hears a thump at his door. His heart is immediately in his throat, but he clamps his mouth shut and waits.

At first, he’s met with a silence long enough to make him think that maybe he’d imagined it. But it’s the precise moment he thinks so that he hears Viktor’s slurred voice from the other side of the door.

“Y’riiii...”

 _“V...Viktor?”_ he chokes.

Two knocks.

 _Wrong order, idiot,_ Yuuri balks. _Knock first!_

“Yuuuuuuuriiii,” Viktor calls again.

“H-hold on,” he responds as he hastily gets to his knees to grab a box of tissues from his desk and clumsily wipe as his mess.

_What if he heard? Oh my god. How long has he been out here?_

_“Yuuuurrrrriiii,”_ Viktor whines. A shallow hiccup follows, then two more knocks. “Anyone hooome?”

Yuuri tosses the used tissues under his bed and scrambles to his feet. In one fluid motion, he yanks up his shorts by the band with one hand while going for the door with the other. He jerks the door open without warning and Viktor, who had apparently been leaning on it, stumbles forward.

“Whoa!” Yuuri throws up both hands and catches him by the shoulders.

“What were you doing in heeeeere?” Viktor drawls, impatience laced through each word. “I’ve been _waaaaiting, Yuuri, for soooo long.”_ Thin, straight brows knit together, accusatory.

“Nothing! Nothing. Um, sorry. I was just getting ready for bed,” Yuuri says, his hands still firmly gripping Viktor’s shoulders in an attempt to steady him.

He watches for any hint of a reaction from the taller man, any indication that Viktor isn’t buying his flimsy explanation. Viktor beams down at him and _giggles_.

“I was goin’ to my room and I heard you call my _naaaame,”_ Viktor says with a dopey smile. He drapes his arms over Yuuri’s shoulders, letting his hands dangle freely behind Yuuri’s neck.

Yuuri’s heart skips a beat. Maybe three. _Oh god. He must have heard pretty much all of it._

“Oh, I... Yeah, I, um...I was...you know. Just talking out loud to myself.”

“About _me?”_

“I was thinking about what you said today. About choosing a different exhibition song.” Yuuri turns his face down when he can’t come up with a better excuse. He doesn’t want to let Viktor see the red creeping up his neck and staining the tips of his ears.

“Is _that_ all _”_ Viktor pouts. “That’s no fuuuun.”

_Is it possible that he didn’t realize? Or is he teasing me?_

“Yeah, that’s all,” Yuuri insists. “Anyway... I’m pretty tired, you know? S-so...”

“O-kaaaaay,” Viktor warbles.

And then he presses a kiss into Yuuri’s hair before untangling himself. Viktor turns and stumbles down the hall to his own room. “Good niiiight!” he chirps once he reaches his doorway.

 _“_ Good night,” Yuuri echoes, wide-eyed and unable to move.

Viktor gives him a childish wave before he disappears into his darkened room where, from the sound of a muffled bark, it seems Makkachin has been waiting for him.

Yuuri closes his door as gently as possible.

And then he throws himself onto his bed buries his head under a pillow.

* * *

 

 **[Yuuri]** Are you available? I need to talk.

  

His phone rings immediately.

“That was fast,” Yuuri says, turning on his front-facing camera.

“You know me,” Phichit says. His face, bright-eyed and smiling, fills Yuuri’s screen “Good morning!”

“Good morning,” Yuuri smiles back. “Sorry, it’s still a little early there, huh?”

Sunlight streams into Yuuri’s room. The alarm clock reads 7:23 am -- two hours ahead of Bangkok. Usually, he’d be on his way to the rink by now, but he didn’t sleep well and so far hasn’t been able to scrounge up enough motivation to get out of bed. (And Viktor hasn’t come to pester him about starting their day, either.) Yuuri stretches out on his side under thick blankets, his phone gripped in both hands.

“It’s fine. I’m usually up this early to get a run in before I go to the rink. I _hate_ running, so I have to get it out of the way early or I’ll dread it all day and then end up just skipping it altogether. And then Ciao Ciao gives me The Talk.”

Yuuri chuckles. “I kind of like running. I can let my mind go blank for a while. I usually run to the rink in the morning and then go on a longer run in the afternoon.”

Phichit scrunches his nose. “You would. So, what’s up?”

Yuuri bites his lip. _Maybe telling him isn’t such a good idea after all._

_“Yuuri.”_

“What?”

“You can’t just text me that you need to talk and then decide not to tell me. Do you _want_ to kill me? I will literally die from unfulfilled anticipation.”

“How did you--?”

“We lived together for how long? I could read ‘Actually, nevermind’ all over your face.”

Yuuri sighs. “It’s... about Viktor.”

Phichit props his phone on what Yuuri assumes is the kitchen counter and then leans in with his chin in both hands. “Go on.”

“I told you about what happened in China after... you know...,” Yuuri starts.

“After he kissed you.”

“Yeah, that. Since then, things have been all right, I guess. We talk normally and it’s not usually awkward or anything. But he’s been... less physical, I guess.”

“Have you been waiting for him to throw himself at you again, or...?”

“No! Nothing like that. I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant... I don’t know. He used to just be _closer,_ and it was comfortable _._ But now it’s like he wants to keep a certain distance, and I want to respect that. I think he caught on that I’d gotten the wrong idea, so I didn’t want to put him in a weird position, you know?”

Phichit nods while he reaches out of the frame to grab at something. His hand returns with a single banana which he begins to peel absentmindedly. “I feel a big ‘but’ coming on.”

Yuuri reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose for a moment. “Yeah.”

Phichit breaks the tip of the banana off and pops it in his mouth with a smirk. “So? Let’s hear it.”

“Well, like I said, he’s been keeping his distance, and I’ve accepted that, but... last night, he drank too much and.... I don’t know. He started touching me.”

“....Touching you like...?”

Yuuri’s face goes red. “God, this is embarrassing.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay!” Phichit says in rapid-fire. “My lips are sealed, I swear.”

“He... pounced on me?”

Phichit’s eyes are wide and gleaming. His mouth is ajar and a piece of unchewed fruit threatens to fall out.

”Nothing happened!” Yuuri insists a little too sharply. “He just... touched my stomach and back mostly.” He makes the snap decision to leave out the full list of places Viktor touched and how. “But then later, I was in my room and I think he heard me _.”_

 _“Heard_ you.”

“Yeah.”

“Heard you doing _what?”_ Phichit inquires.

“You _know_ what,” Yuuri snips. “Don’t make me say it.”

“Oh, Yuuri,” Phichit snickers. “Bad boy.”

“Shut up,” Yuuri groans as he straightens his glasses. “Anyway... I don’t know for sure if he did or not. He didn’t say anything about it. But after I answered the door, he kissed my head, and I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“So you called me.”

“I didn’t know who else to ask, sorry.”

“No, it’s fine,” Phichit assures. “I’m glad you thought of me. But I don’t know if I’m really any help. I don’t know Viktor so well, you know?”

“I know. But, well... do you have any thoughts anyway? Just in general?” Yuuri rolls from his side to his back and holds the phone above his face.

Phichit hums while he finishes his banana and then leans his chin back into one hand. “I don’t know. You two seemed to get along really well, and I thought he seemed totally enamored with you. I mean, I was pretty shocked when you told me about what happened after that kiss. It sure _looked_ like the real thing to me.”

_It **felt** like the real thing._

“...but now you’re getting mixed signals,” the Thai skater adds, “and I can see why that’s frustrating.”

“Do you think I’m just reading too much into it? I mean... he was drunk and not even awake really, and maybe it was just his mood, you know? He’s _Viktor,_ after all. Didn’t necessarily have to be me.” Yuuri’s chest hurts at the thought.

“Maybe just... ask him what his deal is?”

“You can’t be serious.” It’s the one thing Yuuri didn’t want to hear, though he had half-expected it.

Phichit shrugs. “Being direct usually works out well for me.”

“I just don’t want to make things worse. What if I bring it up and he just reaffirms that I have completely misjudged everything? Then any sense of normalcy we have right now will go up in smoke and it’ll be awkward. I don’t want to lose him, even if that means we can only be student and coach, or friends and competitors.”

Phichit smiles gently. “I get it,” he says.

Yuuri smiles too, lopsided and pitiful.

“Well,” Phichit continues, “If you want my opinion, I think the way people act when they’re drunk can often be more honest than when they’re not. I wasn’t there or anything, but I don’t necessarily agree that it could have been anyone. Maybe you should just... initiate first. When he’s sober. A hand on his arm or bumping shoulders or, you know, something platonic. Innocent. Whatever used to be normal. And then gauge his reaction and go from there.”

“Maybe,” Yuuri mumbles.

“It’s better than nothing. But I still think you should give the direct approach some serious consideration.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Yuuri concedes with a sarcastic scoff.

“Anyway, I hate to cut this short, but I _do_ have to get going or I really will just make every excuse not to go on this run,” Phichit says, picking up his phone again.

“Of course, sorry,” Yuuri says. “Thanks for letting me dump on you, Phichit. You’re like the big brother I never had.”

“Even though you’re older and therefore supposed to be wiser,” Phichit points out.

“Shut up.”

* * *

 

Yuuri waits for Viktor outside Yuutopia’s main entrance. It’s colder than the day before and the clouds are rolling in thick and gray. He rubs his hands together cups them over his mouth to catch warm puffs of air.

“Looks like it might snow,” Viktor says from behind.

Yuuri freezes at first but forces himself to turn and look over his shoulder. He has to deal with this sooner or later, personal comfort be damned.

He’s taken aback when he sees Viktor, dressed neatly as usual and sporting no physical evidence of the previous night’s overindulgence, smile softly at him... warmly, even. It’s not that camera-ready smile that Yuuri knows isn’t exactly fake, but definitely isn’t genuine... the one Yuuri was expecting. It’s the real thing.

_That’s... confusing._

”You might be right,” Yuuri nods slowly. “...Morning.”

“Good morning, Yuuri,” Viktor replies. “Sorry we’re getting a bit of a late start, but thank you for waiting for me. I had some trouble waking up today.”

“It’s all right,” Yuuri offers. And then he takes a risk. “Is everything...okay? Last night, I mean.”

Viktor tilts his head to one side, eyebrows sliding upward. “Yes? Why?”

“Oh, um... you just... you drank all that sake, and...”

“Ah,” Viktor says, putting one hand to the side of his neck. “I suppose I overdid it a little last night.” He grimaces. “Did it bother you?”

 _Which part_ _?_

Yuuri swallows hard and barely manages to shake his head. Nerves are taking over, forcing him to shoveshis hands into his pockets to keep them from shaking. Still, he makes himself maintain eye contact.

Viktor locks eyes with him, straight-faced a first, and then grins. “To be honest, I don’t really remember anything after I showed all those photos of Yurio to Mari. I must have passed out pretty hard.”

Tension immediately dissipates from Yuuri’s shoulders and he can’t help but release a relieved sigh.

 _He doesn’t remember,_ Yuuri mentally cheers.

“Sorry if I made you take care of me. I know it can be annoying. Anyway, shall we get going?” Viktor asks as he takes steps toward the bicycle leaning up against the property’s outer wall. He swings one leg up and over and kicks off, coasting toward Yuuri without waiting for an answer.

Yuuri’s stomach sinks and he can feel himself start to crumble. _He doesn’t remember,_ he thinks a second time. He’s disappointed, he realizes.

_No. Stop that. Phichit was right. I have figure Viktor out soon, or this mental back and forth will ruin any chance I have to salvage... whatever this is._

Just as Viktor passes him, Yuuri reaches and out and grabs the Russian man’s arm. Viktor instinctively throws a foot down to keep himself from toppling over.

“Yuuri, that’s dangerous!”

“Viktor,” Yuuri demands.

“Y-yes?”

“Can... can I ride on the back?”

“Huh?”

“Of the bike,” Yuuri clarifies.

“No. I mean, yes. I mean, I know what you meant.” Viktor takes a deliberate breath. “Sorry.”

“Can I?” Yuuri asks again. “Since we’re starting late. If I run, we’ll just be delaying our time on the ice, so...”

Viktor stares. Yuuri wills himself to stare back.

“Sure,” Viktor finally says. That same warm smile from earlier is back. “Hop on.”

Yuuri climbs onto the back of the bike, seating himself on the rack over the back tire. And then he wraps his arms around Viktor’s waist without a warning or an apology.

Viktor doesn’t pull away or tense under Yuuri’s hands, but he does cast a curious glance over his shoulder. Yuuri offers a small smile. Viktor's eyes light up.

“Hold on tight, it’s going to be a bumpy ride!,” Viktor calls out suddenly, his voice loud and boisterous.

He kicks off and begins to pedal furiously in the direction of Ice Castle.

_My thoughts exactly._

Yuuri does as he's told; he tightens his hold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Next time**  
>  Yuuri said he understood, but Viktor isn't convinced he does. Still, Viktor doesn't want to put words in Yuuri's mouth; if Yuuri doesn't figure it out on his own, it's meaningless. The Russian closes his eyes, concentrating on the measured rise and fall of the warm body next to him, and tries to sleep.  
> \--
> 
> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed this installment. I had a lot to cover including Phichit's debut! I know a lot of fans have their own HCs about the nature of Yuuri and Phichit's relationship in Detroit. I personally don't really HC them as ever having had a romantic or sexual relationship. But I do think they've got a super important bond... I tend to think that Phichit also suffers from anxiety but has different coping mechanisms. But since they both know what it feels like, Yuuri and Phichit are much better at knowing how to support one another since they _get_ it. 
> 
> Come see me [on tumblr](https://hanarezu-ni.tumblr.com/) where I reblog YOI stuff and post updates about this fic as well as some of my own [super awful](https://hanarezu-ni.tumblr.com/post/160616910864/soft-boys) [fan art](https://hanarezu-ni.tumblr.com/post/160766369829/he-makes-his-debut-in-ch-3-of-my-yuri-on). 
> 
> Here's some information about [O mio babbino caro](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/O_mio_babbino_caro) from [_Gianni Schicchi_](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gianni_Schicchi).


	4. Misperception (Viktor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What is love, exactly?” he asks after some time. The question is seemingly rhetorical, like Yuuri thought it but didn’t necessarily mean to say it aloud. It catches Viktor off-guard.
> 
> Viktor blinks. “You’re asking that now, after you’ve decided to devote an entire season to it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is over 7.5k words and it's gonna be painful. Please accept my apologies in advance. 
> 
> I've linked the music Yuuri is referring to in the text. It's a long piece, but you'll get the overall idea. 
> 
> Links to some translation and inspiration stuff in the end notes. 
> 
> As always, thank you for all of your feedback. \\(*´♡`*)/

“Sorry to make you wait, Viktor.”

Viktor looks up from his spot on the locker room bench, where he is absentmindedly scrolling on his phone while waiting for his pupil to finish packing his skating bag before they head home. Yuuri stands over him, rubbing a long white towel over the back of his neck to soak up the perspiration that has collected on his skin. His cheeks are still flushed pink from a grueling practice and sweat glues the fabric of his shirt to each and every muscle of his chest and torso. His hair is wild with the wind he created for himself while on the ice.

Viktor can only blink and wonder how it’s possible for someone to radiate beauty the way Yuuri does. His mouth falls open as if he intends to answer, but he can’t. Words escape him and he chokes on an odd noise.

Yuuri puts himself in a swift squat before Viktor, a hand on each knee, and looks up into his face, searching with those big, brown eyes. “Viktor?” he asks, his voice soft and worried. “Are you alright? What’s wrong?”

Ever since the morning they rode tandem to Ice Castle on Viktor’s bicycle, Yuuri has been more forthcoming with platonic contact, and Viktor is relieved to be taking baby steps back to what had been normal. But this is... unexpectedly intimate. And abrupt.

Bringing up a hand to cover his face, Viktor nods and forces himself to swallow whatever other unintelligible noises lurk in his throat. “Fine. I’m fine,” he swallows before dropping his hand to flash what he hopes is an assuring smile.

Yuuri doesn’t budge. Viktor feels the individual pressure and heat of each fingertip on his knees through his pants. Those brown eyes move in closer -- scanning, inspecting, _doubting._

“I’m _fine_ ,” Viktor says again. “Really. Are... are you ready to go? Lunch will be served soon, I imagine.”

“Lunch can wait,” Yuuri says. His eyes are sharp and dark, and they’re roaming now from Viktor’s face to his chest, and then lower. “You’re lying to me.”

“What?” Viktor knits his brows together.

“You’re _lying,”_ Yuuri complains. “You’re not fine. Look at you.”

The unexpected force with which Yuuri forces Viktor’s knees apart startles the Russian. He reels backward and grabs the edge of the bench to steady himself. Yuuri is staring intently at the space between Viktor’s legs. Viktor follows his gaze to the bulge that’s growing there. The pink tip of Yuuri’s tongue edges out from between his lips and swipes over one corner of his mouth, a gesture that Viktor mimics unconsciously.

“Yuuri, wait...” he implores in a harsh whisper, but he doesn’t move away as both of Yuuri’s hands go to work on the thin, black leather belt.

“It’s okay,” Yuuri insists, voice throaty and eyes focused as he tugs down the zipper and folds back the front panels of Viktor’s slacks. And then he looks up suddenly, all determination and seriousness. “Or do you not want me to?”

“No, it’s not that, it’s just -- I.... _Shit.”_

Yuuri doesn’t wait for the rest. He’s already tugging aside the front panel of Viktor’s black briefs to free his length. Viktor sucks in air between clenched teeth in an attempt to ground himself. But how can he? Yuuri’s hand is clumsy, but it’s warm and strong and gentle, and he’s already stroking Viktor from top to bottom _painfully_ slow.

“Yuuri,” Viktor attempts a whisper. For all he knows, the Nishigori family might be just outside the door and while he certainly wouldn’t be _ashamed_ , he’s not sure he wants anyone to hear or see this. “Yuuri, are you sure? This is... ah!.. really sudden.”

“Just consider it a continuation from the other day,” Yuuri replies smoothly, his eyes on his handiwork. He runs his thumb over the crown and back down the underside of Viktor’s member.

“The other... day...?” Viktor manages between choked moans.

Yuuri’s gaze flashes upward and he smirks, the same leering face he sends across the ice at the start of “Eros.” Viktor has lamented to himself time and again how criminal it is that Yuuri can be so powerfully seductive without even trying. The way his eyes drill into Viktor’s, the way his lips curl, the nonchalant way he declares his intentions... it all makes it hard to breathe.

And then Yuuri makes it _even harder_. He drops to his knees between Viktor’s spread legs and snakes his arms around Viktor’s midsection. His hands worm their way down the back of Viktor’s pants, fingers kneading his buttocks through the fabric of his underwear. Viktor can’t help the gasp that escapes him. It’s all the encouragement Yuuri needs, apparently. One rough tug brings Viktor forward just enough to allow Yuuri to consume him.

“ _Yuuri--_ ” Viktor whines, eyes screwed shut. His hands immediately fly to find their places in that shock of dark hair, damp and slick with sweat. His mind flashes white hot. Any worry he had about being overheard is gone because he _can’t really think_ when he’s enveloped in the heat of Yuuri’s mouth.

Yuuri works his tongue with more expertise and takes him in deeper than Viktor could have anticipated. He’s immediately overwhelmed; holding himself upright takes all the concentration he can muster. It takes a while, but Viktor eventually wills himself to open his eyes and take in the sight of this stunning boy swallowing him with such _vigor._ Impulsively, he slicks Yuuri’s fringe backward to get a better view. Yuuri, keeping his lips firmly wrapped around Viktor as he bobs, lifts his eyes to meet Viktor’s over the frames of his glasses. The combination is a killing blow.

“Oh god,” he pants. “Yuuri, s-stop... I’m going to--”

Yuuri takes the cue and backs off, but there is no respite. Yuuri’s hand is back to work at once. He pumps an increasingly squirmy Viktor, rhythmic and firm, all the while staring expectantly at the glistening slit at the tip. Viktor’s ragged panting and gasping fill and echo in the locker room, sporadic and labored until his breath hitches, and then he’s gone. He throws his head back and lets loose on Yuuri’s cheeks and chin with a long, lewd moan.

When he comes to his senses enough to see thick trails of white roll down and drip from Yuuri’s face, he balks. “Oh, Yuuri... I’m sorr-- wait, here,” he stutters while fumbling for a linen handkerchief in his pant pocket.

“It’s fine. I’m happy,” Yuuri says with a flushed smile. He uses his thumb to wipe at his chin and then licks it, velvety tongue lavishing the digit in what must be a purposeful recall of what he’s just done to Viktor.

The sight alone is instantly enough for Viktor’s body to hope for a second round. He leans down to capture Yuuri’s swollen lips.

And then the rink’s fire alarm goes off.

* * *

 

Viktor’s eyes fly open.

It takes a moment to work out what is happening and where he is. He looks around, half-expecting to see the younger skater, but then it clicks. Moscow. Dusk has set in; dark pinks and purples outside his window cast reddish shadows in his hotel room. His phone, sitting face up on the bedside table, is screaming -- an alarm he set to make sure he didn’t sleep through dinner plans with Yuuri.

They’d arrived in Moscow for the Rostelecom Cup early that morning, but the six hour time difference had gotten the best of them both. After checking in with both the hotel and the event staff, they’d both been dead on their feet. Viktor had already made plans to take Yuuri to one of his favorite restaurants in Moscow for dinner but was concerned they wouldn’t make it in their current state. Practice started the next day and free time was limited, so if they missed their reservation, Viktor wasn’t sure they’d be able to find time once official events began. He desperately wanted to show Yuuri a little part of his life in Russia.

Yuuri, seeing Viktor’s worry, had suggested a short nap to hold them over.

“See you later,” Yuuri had said he’d headed toward the elevators ahead of Viktor who was cornered by reporters in the lobby.

It’s only when Viktor rolls over to turn off his alarm that he realizes his briefs are soaked and sticking stubbornly to his skin.

 _Seriously?_ he asks himself as he inspects the mess. _I’m too old for wet dreams, aren’t I?_

Flashbacks of his fantasy overtake him: scenes of Yuuri on his knees, Yuuri’s lips wrapped demurely around his girth, Yuuri licking his fingers. Viktor ignores the throb in his groin.

_Guess not._

He strips off his underwear and cleans himself with a handful of tissues taken from the nightstand. Sitting naked on the edge of the bed, he grabs his phone to check the time so he can gauge how long he has to get ready for dinner. Instead, he’s distracted by a list of notifications. He has... too many messages waiting. All from Chris.

 

 **[Christophe]** Viktor...?

 **[Christophe]** You can’t just leave me hanging like this. Really, it’s cruel.

 **[Christophe]** Viktor????

 **[Christophe]** You drank an entire bottle of sake and then WHAT???

 **[Christophe]** You are not being fair right now.

 **[Christophe]** I am DYING to know the rest of this story.

 **[Christophe]** Friends don’t do this to each other, Viktor.

 

Viktor chuckles. He’d been texting back and forth with Chris before he’d fallen asleep and had unintentionally left the Swiss skater with a cliffhanger.

 

 **[Viktor]** Sorry, I fell asleep. Jet lag hits harder the older you get.

  

Chris must have been sitting around, phone in hand, just _waiting_ , because his reply is instantaneous.

 

 **[Christophe]** I don’t care to hear your excuses, old man. Finish your story.

 **[Viktor]** Yes, dear.

 **[Viktor]** So I drank the whole bottle. I was upset.

 **[Viktor]** Yuuri was SO on edge when I touched him during practice. It hurt my feelings.

 **[Christophe]** Didn’t you resolve to be patient...?

 **[Viktor]** Even five-time champions have feelings, Christophe.

 **[Christophe]** Clearly that is a lie.

 **[Christophe]** Anyway, you already told me about the sake. I’m more interested in what comes next.

 

Viktor thinks back to that evening in Hasetsu. He has to puzzle some things together before he types his answer.

 

 **[Viktor]** I groped him.

 **[Christophe]** Viktor.

 **[Viktor]** Maybe.

 **[Christophe]** VIKTOR.

 **[Viktor]** Probably.

 **[Christophe]** What do you mean ~probably~?

 **[Viktor]** It’s a little hazy...

 **[Christophe]** But you remember some of it, even after drinking that much?

 **[Viktor]** I’m Russian, you know.

 **[Christophe]** You’re ridiculous is what you are.

 

Viktor sits with his thumbs poised over the keyboard, unsure if he should really divulge the rest. But bouncing everything of Chris had been somewhat helpful in the past, and it was better to talk to someone than internalize everything, right? If not Chris, then who? Certainly not Yuuri. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

 

 **[Viktor]** There’s still more.

 **[Christophe]** Do tell.

 **[Viktor]** I’m not sure exactly what happened, but I woke up alone in the room.

 **[Christophe]** Please don’t tell me you were undressed.

 **[Viktor]** I was still dressed. I don’t think we did anything really.

 **[Viktor]** But on my way to bed, I heard him call my name in his room.

 **[Christophe]** Oh?

 **[Viktor]** I don’t know. It was odd, but I was drunk and I don’t remember clearly.

 **[Christophe]** Did you ask him about it?

 **[Viktor]** I went to check, yes.

 **[Viktor]** He said he was thinking out loud about his exhibition program.

 **[Viktor]** We’ve been talking about changing it.

 **[Viktor]** But he was really awkward about the whole thing.

 

Chris sends a smirking emoji; Viktor doesn’t grasp it’s intended meaning, and he still has to get ready for dinner, so he moves on for the sake of time. He’s got less than an hour to shower and dress before he’s due to at Yuuri’s door.

 

 **[Viktor]** Anyway, I was all over him then, too. And I kissed his head before I went to my room.

 **[Christophe]** Because you’re a lovesick idiot.

 **[Viktor]** Because I was drunk.

 **[Christophe]** Same thing.

 **[Christophe]** And did he say anything about any of this to you later?

 **[Viktor]** That’s the strangest part.

 **[Viktor]** The next day, I asked him if he was bothered and he said no.

 **[Christophe]**!!!!!

 **[Viktor]** But his body language was all wrong.

 **[Viktor]** It was like China all over again. He was SO bothered.

 **[Viktor]** So I told him I didn’t remember anything.

 **[Viktor]** And just like in China, he was SO RELIEVED.

 **[Christophe]** Oh, Viktor...

 **[Viktor]** But ever since then, he’s been better I guess?

 **[Christophe]** What do you mean?

 **[Viktor]** He’s much more natural. More at ease.

 **[Viktor]** We don’t talk about it at all... sort of like we don’t talk about Sochi.

 **[Viktor]** Or China, for that matter.

 **[Viktor]** But at least he’s not acting like I have the plague anymore.

 **[Viktor]** He touches me casually and doesn’t seem to mind if I do the same sometimes.

 **[Christophe]** I’m sorry, I don’t get it.

 **[Viktor]** I know, me either. But that’s it. That’s the whole story.

 **[Viktor]** And now I have to get ready to take him out to dinner.

 **[Christophe]** Only you would attack a boy, then pretend it never happened, THEN take him on a date.

 **[Viktor]** Good night, Chris.

 **[Christophe]** Good luck, Viktor.

 

Viktor tosses his phone onto the bed and heads for the shower.

* * *

 

Viktor cradles his chin in his hand while he watches Yuuri finish his dinner by meticulously gathering every last crumb and morsel onto his fork before bringing it to his mouth. A contented smile plays over his lips. He loves watching Yuuri eat -- the way he’s not wasteful, the way he appreciates each ingredient no matter how minor, the extremely specific way his eyes widen when he tastes something that is to his liking.

They sit at a corner table next to a tall, narrow window. Yuuri looks lovely in a white dress shirt and a casual blue blazer. His hair falls over his brow as usual, but Viktor can’t help but wish he’d slicked it back tonight, a thought that invokes the image of dream-Yuuri between his legs. Although the lighting is low and intimate, Viktor slaps his hands over both cheeks to cover the instant blush that burns into his skin.

Yuuri dabs the corners of his mouth with his napkin when he’s finished and then returns it to his lap. When his eyes lift to meet Viktor’s gaze, the Russian straightens his back and tugs down the black turtleneck under his unbuttoned gray suit jacket.

“I’ve decided what to do about my exhibition skate,” Yuuri says out of the blue. “For the Final.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I think you’re right. I should change it. I was thinking--”

“Just a moment, Yuuri,” Viktor says, raising a hand above his head to signal a passing waiter. “Let’s order dessert first.”

“Is that such a good idea right before a competition?”

“It’s fine, it’s fine. This place has the _best_ ptichye moloko cake. You _have_ to try it,” he gushes, not bothering to try and explain what it is or what it means.

“But--”

“We’ll split one if that will make you feel better,” Viktor insists. He doesn’t wait for Yuuri to protest or concede.

When the waiter appears, he makes his request. The waiter thanks him (by name) shakily, and, after gathering the cleaned-off dishware and utensils, slips off toward the kitchen (but not without bumping into another patron’s chair first, much to Viktor’s amusement).

Viktor turns his gaze back to his companion. Yuuri is looking around the hall which is decorated from floor to ceiling with dark wood and Baroque carvings. This restaurant had clearly been someone’s mansion in the past, and the feel of being in some bourgeoisie home has been preserved and heightened for the sake of atmosphere. In the far corner of the room, a female string quartet plays light, airy tunes that enhance the luxury these walls are meant to project.

“Sorry. You were saying?” he urges as he picks up his wine glass and finishes off the final mouthful.

“Huh? Oh. Yeah. My exhibition skate,” Yuuri nods, splaying his hands on the table.

“You’ve decided to change it?”

“I thought about what you said, about how it looks like I’m defeated from the start. Thinking about defeat got me thinking about Sochi and...”

Viktor’s heart stops for a moment. Yuuri in Sochi brings up a specific set of memories for Viktor, but it’s a topic Yuuri has never seen fit to reminisce over before.

“...what if I redo my free skate?” Yuuri continues, forming each word carefully like he isn’t sure what his coach will think.

_Oh._

“The one you blundered in the Final.”

Yuuri winces.

“Sorry!” Viktor backpedals as the stupidity of his word choice immediately washes over him. “I didn’t mean it like that... I--”

He’s not sure how to fix what he’s said, so he opts to cover one of Yuuri’s hands with his own and hopes he gets the message. Yuuri’s eyes dart to Viktor’s hand, then back up to his face. He offers a pained smile.

”No,” he says. “You’re right. It was...a blunder. But that’s why I thought maybe it’s perfect. If I skate it without any mistakes this time, it’d be my chance to prove to everyone that I’m not that terrible skater anymore. No one will be expecting me to try it again.”

“Yuuri,” Viktor says, dipping his head to level his face with the Japanese skater's. “You are not, nor have you _ever_ been, a terrible skater.”

“You know what I mean,” Yuuri says softly, averting his eyes. It’s a phrase he says often, but Viktor never knows what he means because Viktor can never understand why Yuuri thinks these self-depreciating thoughts about himself.

“I’m not particularly fond of hearing you badmouth my star pupil,” Viktor says, sternly. “You have talent and work ethic, and a mesmerizing _grace_ that is unparalleled. You are the top skater in Japan. You _made it to the Grand Prix Final._ You are not second-rate. You are elite. You are inspiring. And you were all of these things _before_ I became your coach _._ ”

He curls his fingers around Yuuri’s hand and squeezes it gently. Yuuri presses his lips into a tight line and closes his eyes before taking a deep, calculated breath. Viktor takes that as his cue to remove his hand.

“Thank you,” Yuuri exhales, his voice barely audible over the crescendo of the quartet’s current performance. He curls his fingers lightly into the table cloth.

“No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have touched you without asking.”

Yuuri looks up finally, his eyebrows furrowed. “What? Wait, no. I meant the compliment. Thank you. For the things you just said. I was...happy.”

“Oh,” Viktor says dumbly.

Yuuri chuckles -- a light, lilting sound -- and the tension in the air evaporates instantly. Viktor slumps back in his chair and tilts his head just so, so that the curtain of hair that falls over his face will hide his embarrassment. He also wishes he had asked the waiter to bring him another glass of wine.

“So,” he says after he forces a small cough and squares his shoulders once more. “Your free skate from Sochi, hm?”

Yuuri nods.

Viktor closes his eyes and tries to recall Yuuri skating in Sochi, but he’s not sure if he even saw it. It’s possible he’d been warming up for his own skate or was in the middle of getting a lecture from Yakov before his program. His memory isn’t clear. In truth, life before Yuuri is rather blurry.

“I don’t quite remember it,” he apologizes.

“It’s a piece by Chopin. ’[Allegro Maestoso](https://youtu.be/ZoocpxXYbHM?t=3m58s),” Yuuri says. “It’s pretty multifaceted. Maybe a little unconventional. It’s long, so Celestino had someone edit it down to fit the time limits, but it has a lot of ups and downs. It reminds me of... inside my head.”

Tapping an index finger against his lips, Viktor hums to himself for a moment and vaguely recalls snippets of a hurried, almost chaotic piano. An unusual choice, but not a bad one. But something doesn’t sit right with him about this idea, and it’s not the music. It’s something else.

“And tell me again why you want to use that program?” he asks, his eyes still closed.

“Redemption?” Yuuri offers. He sounds unsure.

_Ah. Now I know._

Viktor’s eyes flutter open. “I don’t think that’s it.”

“Huh?”

“It’s not redemption. You took silver in China, and you’re going to prove you belong on the podium again this weekend. The whole world can’t stop watching you, can’t stop _talking_ about you. You’ve _already_ redeemed yourself. But you’re not satisfied. You want them to feel guilty... to apologize for having ever doubted you. That’s not redemption, that’s vindication. You’re doing it for your own pride.”

Yuuri’s eyes are huge and Viktor feels the second pang of regret for his tendency to be a little too blunt and say a little too much. But he swallows it down because while he may not always pick the right words, he’s not wrong. Yuuri is proposing something that is self-serving, bordering on arrogant even, and that’s not who he is. That’s not the Yuuri he fell in love with. That’s not skating he’s interested in seeing.

“That’s harsh,” Yuuri fires.

“Maybe so,” Viktor says with a shrug, his voice low, “but it’s true, isn’t it?”

The waiter’s timing is poor. He returns to the table and announces the dessert. He announces the dessert, placing a small plate at the center of the table along with two small, thin silver dessert forks. Thin layers of sponge cake sit below thick, rich layers of white souffle. The top is glazed with a dark chocolate like a decadent candy bar. Viktor slides a smile onto his face and pays his thanks to the man who then bows his head and trots off, still obviously starstruck.

He picks up a fork and offers it to Yuuri. “First bite is all yours.”

Yuuri doesn’t reach for it. He’s staring a little too hard, a little too long, with angled brows and a mouth that is twisted into what might pass for a scowl.

“Yuuri?”

“Why do you have to say it like that?” Yuuri snaps.

Viktor feels a prick of irritation. “Did it hurt your feelings?”

“ _Yes,”_ Yuuri says, balling the hand Viktor had just clasped moments ago into a tight fist.

“That’s also your pride,” Viktor says nonchalantly. He brings the fork back toward himself and uses the outer edge to slice off the tip of the cake. It’s as delicious as he remembers and he’s desperate for Yuuri to experience it, but the younger man’s agitation doesn’t seem to be easing.

“Aren’t you the one who told me to be more confident in myself?” Yuuri retorts, his voice a little louder than necessary.

Other diners turn their eyes and heads in the skaters’ direction. Yuuri ducks his head, but Viktor flashes an apologetic grin and turns his attention back to the man on the other side of the table.

“Confidence and pride aren’t the same things. I also told you that your current program was no good because, as it is now, it won’t entertain the audience. Do you think something as selfish as skating a program meant to make them eat their words will be enjoyable for them? I thought your theme for this season was love. Do you not love your audience, Yuuri? Because they love _you._ ”

Yuuri opens his mouth to say something, but it seems the words die on his tongue. His jaw goes slack and his mouth hangs open. Viktor takes the opportunity to carve out another bite of cake and pop it into Yuuri’s open mouth.

“Mn!” The younger man raises a hand to conceal his mouth which closes on instinct.

“It’s good, right?” Viktor smiles.

Yuuri glares at him while he chews. When he swallows, he sighs and lets his shoulders slump. “Vkusno,” he answers flatly. But, Viktor notes, his eyes had widened just the way they always do when he’s eaten something he truly enjoys.

In silence, they take turns forking small bites into their mouths, one after the other until there’s nothing left. When Yuuri puts his fork down, he leans back in his chair and fiddles with the hem of the napkin still strewn across his lap.

“What is love, exactly?” he asks after some time. The question is seemingly rhetorical like Yuuri thought it but didn’t necessarily mean to say it aloud. It catches Viktor off-guard.

Viktor blinks. “You’re asking that _now_ after you’ve decided to devote an entire season to it?”

“I... I said in the press conference that I wasn’t sure what to name the feeling of wanting to hold on to someone. So I just sort of... arbitrarily called it love. But what is love?” Their eyes meet. “To you, I mean.”

_You. Love, to me, is you._

Thinking better than to repeat his gut’s answer outright, Viktor ponders how to essentially say it without _actually_ saying it.

“I don’t think you’re wrong,” Viktor starts slowly, “about love being the desire to hold on to someone. But it’s also filling up someone’s empty spaces.”

“Empty spaces,” Yuuri parrots.

“Yes. Love isn’t just taking and keeping. It’s giving and supporting. It’s creating a place where pretense isn’t needed,” Viktor continues. “...where the other person doesn’t have to be afraid of being himself, even when he’s not his best self. And when he’s not, then you do all you can to fill those spaces that are lacking so that he can _become_ his best self. And you do that willingly for as long as you are allowed to stay by that person’s side.”

Yuuri is silent for a long while, his eyes cast down to his lap.

 _Now is as good a time as any to signal the waiter for the bill_ , Viktor thinks. He has his hand mid-air when Yuuri speaks again.

“If that’s love, then...,” he gulps, “you love me.”

Yuuri’s voice is a whisper, but it roars in Viktor’s ears, drowning out the sounds of strings in the air, the clinking of forks and glasses, the constant murmur of conversation. Yuuri’s eyes rise to meet Viktor’s, stunning him into stillness.

“Huh?” It’s an inarticulate response, but it’s all he can manage.

“Because that’s...that’s what you’ve done for-- _do_ for me. So, by _your_ definition... that must mean you love me.”

Viktor is floored. He hasn’t moved a muscle. He hasn’t even blinked.

_Move. Speak. **Do** something!_

Slowly, he lowers his hand and carefully places it on the table. He keeps his gaze sharp, focused, and serious. The urge to clear his throat is overridden with some concentration for fear that Yuuri will mistake it for hesitation, and that’s the last thing he wants at this particular moment.

Because while Viktor Nikiforov may be coy sometimes, this is the one topic about which he is most desperate to be completely honest. And Yuuri brought it up first, hadn’t he? He wants to be sure Yuuri understands.

“I do,” Viktor says, plain but sincere.

Now, not only have the sounds of their surroundings fallen away but so has the scene itself. Tables, diners, the carvings on the wall, the string quartet... it’s all gone. Viktor can only see Yuuri, straight-backed with his eyes wide and his lips parted just slightly. The silence lasts for an eternity, or so it seems. But Viktor said it and he can’t take it back. He doesn’t regret it, he thinks, but this limbo is agonizing.

“Thank you,” Yuuri finally replies, his eyes cast down at his hands once more.

 _‘Thank you’?_ Viktor quotes to himself.

The Russian allows himself to clear his throat now because he isn’t sure what else to do. “Thank you” is the ultimate non-reply, and while Viktor knew he was taking a risk, he’d expected the response to be... something else.

“Of course,” he says.

The conversation dies; a clumsy sort of tension fills the space between them.

“Well,” Viktor hears himself saying at length, “if you’re finished with dessert, maybe we’d better head back. Unless you’d like a cup of coffee first? Or we could stop by a little bar I know for an after-dinner drink.”

_Avoidance. Good work, Nikiforov._

Yuuri shakes his head. “No, I’m fine.” He shifts in his seat to remove his wallet from his back pocket.

“Ah, Yuuri, no,” Viktor says quickly. “This is my treat.”

“I can’t let you do that,” Yuuri insists. “This was a wonderful meal, but I saw the prices. It’s too much.”

“Please, let me pay,” Viktor appeals. “I’m the one who wanted to bring you here. I _want_ to pay.”

Yuuri stares for a beat and then slips his thin billfold back into its place. “All right,” he says with a small smile. “Thank you. It was delicious.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

* * *

 

“I’ll reconsider my exhibition program,” Yuuri announces, turning to face Viktor as he pulls down on the handle of his hotel room door.

Viktor nods. “I’ll be waiting to hear what you decide.”

Yuuri chews on the inside of his bottom lip, something Viktor’s eyes can’t help but zero in on. He knows very well when Yuuri is mulling over whether or not he should say what’s on his mind, so he waits. Sometimes Yuuri says it. Sometimes he doesn’t. Viktor never pushes either way.

“Thank you again for dinner,” Yuuri says.

_Ah. Tonight he won’t._

“You’re welcome,” Viktor says cordially. “I’m glad you liked it.”

“I did,” Yuuri smiles. “It’s been a long time since I was treated to something so... extravagant.”

“Then you’ll have to let me spoil you again sometime,” Viktor grins, “because it was quite enjoyable for me as well.”

One gloved hand moves of its own volition, aiming for Yuuri’s free hand. Viktor regains his composure in time though and draws it back before it can find its target. Instead, he brings it to his cheek and scratches. Yuuri’s eyes track it from start to finish.

“So, um...” the Japanese skater says, pushing the door inward. “I’ll see you in the morning?”

Viktor nods with a grimace. “Bright and early for a day of practice. And the usual press junket, I suppose.”

Yuuri groans. Viktor chuckles.

“I’ll come pick you up,” Viktor offers. “I might even bring you a hot breakfast if you’re lucky. I know a wonderful little place nearby.”

Yuuri presses his lips together and nods once. “That’d be nice.”

“Then it’s decided. Have a good night’s sleep, Yuuri.”

“You, too.”

Viktor pivots on one foot to stride toward his own room on the opposite side of the hall, two doors down. As he removes his card key from a lined pocket stitched into the inside of his trench, he dares to glance back in Yuuri’s direction. The Japanese skater rewards him with a funny little wave before shuffling into his room. Viktor waits Yuuri’s the door to click shut before entering through his own.

Once inside, he goes through the usual motions of removing his outerwear, then his suit jacket and vest, and hanging them with the utmost care. Seated at the edge of the bed, Viktor turns on the television and flips channels until he finds a news station. He turns down the volume to create a bit of white noise for himself before bending down to carefully untie the laces of his black leather shoes, slips them off, and set them to the side.

And then he abandons his composure and lets himself free fall backward on the mattress with a heaving sigh.

It had been a good night overall, right? Strange. A little tense at times. _But it felt like a big step forward. Maybe._

Viktor allows himself to stare at the white ceilings trimmed with crown molding for a long while so he can replay their night and rewind his favorite parts. Yuuri laughing as Viktor regaled him with a story about the time he’d brought Yurio to the same restaurant for lunch only for the staff to keep mistaking him for Viktor’s younger brother (a gaffe that had Yurio seething). The way Yuuri drank half a glass of water between each small sip of the one glass of wine Viktor had insisted he order. Even the way he fought to keep his features sour while he ate dessert, like he hadn’t wanted to admit that he wasn’t as angry as he wanted Viktor to believe.

And the way Yuuri had quietly thanked him after Viktor had confirmed his love. In fact, it was the thing that most consumed his thoughts all the way back to the hotel. He’d essentially confessed, but the follow-up had been so anticlimactic. No dramatic counter confession. No panic attack. Not even a blush. Just a simple thank you, and then the subject had been wholly dropped.

 _Maybe a small step, then,_ Viktor sighs silently.

He pulls his phone from his pant pocket. As expected, a message or five from Chris wait for him, each one inquiring with greater urgency about the events of the evening. Viktor decides he won’t respond. Not yet. He wants to bask in the successes of the night, not spend the rest of the evening recounting and analyzing a play-by-play of the minor bumps at the very end. Right now, it feels too private and too raw.

He tosses his phone onto his pillow and stands to finish undressing.

* * *

 

It’s just past 11:30 pm, nearly an hour and a half after they’d returned. Viktor is sitting up in bed dressed in an old sweatshirt and joggers worn thin and made feather soft with time. After listening to the headlines of the day, he’d turned off his television in favor of a novel he’d bought at the airport. He’s just about to finish the sixteenth chapter when he hears his phone ping and sees, from the corner of his eye, the screen light up with an incoming notification.

_Chris, give it up._

Still, he reaches for it and scans the display.

 

 **[Yuuri]** Are you awake?

 

Viktor frowns. A moment is spared to mark his page and set the paperback on the nightstand, and then he types.

 

 **[Viktor]** I am, but you shouldn’t be. Is everything OK?

 

Viktor hits send and holds his breath. Minutes drag on and turn into eons before the reply comes.

 

 **[Yuuri]** Can I come over?

 **[Viktor]** yes

 

The flood of adrenaline is so immediate, so overpowering, that he doesn’t even bother to capitalize properly or use punctuation. But it’s not until after he sends the reply that he realizes how hard his chest is pounding.

_Why does he want to come over? What’s happening right now? Oh my g--_

Before he can complete his thought, there's a light rap at the door. It's so instant that it's like Yuuri had been standing right outside of it _before_ he’d asked to come over. Viktor flies off the bed and runs to the door, wrenching it open with a sharp jerk.

Yuuri stands before him in a pair of cotton shorts and a t-shirt emblazoned with the logo of the university he graduated from in Detroit. His phone is in a white-knuckled grip at his side; he looks like some damaged thing that someone has haphazardly tried to fix with cheap cellophane tape. His eyes are red, his hair is mussed, and there is no color in his face to speak of. His shoulders are tensed at the neck, but his back is curved forward like he’s unable to stand up straight. He is broken.

“Yuuri, what’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri croaks. “I...”

Viktor doesn’t wait for him to finish. He grabs his student’s arm and pulls him over the threshold, letting the door close itself behind them as he maneuvers Yuuri to the foot of the bed.

“Sit,” he commands. Yuuri complies, placing his phone on the bed next to his thigh.

Viktor moves to the small fridge tucked away in the far corner of the room and takes a bottle of water from inside. Turning back, he grabs the back of the Louis-style chair that’s placed before a small writing desk. He drags it along with him until it’s in front of Yuuri, who is now slumped forward, shoulders rounded and forearms rested limply on his knees. Viktor holds the bottle out by the cap, pressing the chilled plastic against Yuuri’s cheek.

“Here,” he offers.

Yuuri doesn’t look up when he takes the bottle, slowly unscrews the cap, and chugs until he can’t. Viktor slides into the chair, his knees just millimeters from brushing against those of his visitor. He steels himself against the impulse to speak first, to ask a million questions, to spin words of reassurance even when he’s not sure what the problem is yet. Yuuri had told him before that he didn’t have to say anything, and he’d committed that request to memory. For now, he would have to content himself with the belief that simply sharing a space was support enough.

“Sorry,” Yuuri says again, voice gritty.

“Don’t be,” Viktor replies.

Yuuri shakes his head. “I mean about dinner. For yelling at you.”

“Did you yell?” Viktor feigns, leaning back into the chair. It’s an attempt to lighten the mood, but maybe a poor one.

Yuuri looks up finally.

Viktor waves his hand dismissively. “That’s kind of you, but you don’t have to worry yourself over that, Yuuri. I wasn’t hurt. I know I probably said too much, and it’s not like I didn’t know how you’d take it. _I’m_ the one who should apologize. I can be a bit of a brute at times.”

Yuuri shakes his head again. “No, you were only telling me the truth,” he says. “You don’t lie to me.”

Viktor cringes.

“I don’t want to lie to you,” he says.

 _But I **have** lied to you before, _ he adds on in his head _._

Yuuri nods again and takes another sip of water.

“Is that what has you so upset, Yuuri? You were worried about my feelings?”

Yuuri removes his frames with one hand and rubs his face roughly with the other. “Partially.”

“Can I ask about the rest?”

Replacing his glasses, Yuuri sighs. “Earlier today, when you were talking with those reporters in the lobby, I ran into Yurio.”

Viktor nods. He’d also had a run-in with his young rinkmate, but he doesn’t quite follow Yuuri’s line of thought.

“He um... he told me that he’d make sure I lost so that you’d stay here after the competition. I...uh... I’ve been thinking about that a lot.”

“Yuuri,” Viktor says gently, “You know how that child is. Don’t let him get under your skin. You’re going to do great.”

Yuuri smiles, but the balled fists on his knees give him away. “Yeah, but I might not. I might not place high enough to make it to the Final. And then this whole thing,” he gestures between them, “will be.... o-over.” His voice cracks as tears well up in the corners of his eyes.

He’s shaking, and Viktor feels his whole chest clench at the sight. Instinctively, Viktor leans forward, coming out of his chair slightly, and wraps his arms around Yuuri’s shoulders. It breaks every rule he’s made for himself about letting Yuuri come to him first, but at this moment, Viktor doesn’t care. It pains him to see Yuuri like this and not comforting him is too calloused.

“Shh,” he coos. “It’s all right. Yuuri, shh.”

It’s a complete surprise when Viktor feels the tug of his sweatshirt as Yuuri clenches heavily at the sides and the press of Yuuri’s head into his collarbone. The only evidence of Yuuri’s tears is the silent bob of his shoulders.

“I...I’m sorry,” Yuuri chokes out after his shoulders have stopped convulsing so violently. “I just... it’s been on my mind, and then we had a fight so I was thinking you might be relieved if I did mess up. Maybe it’d be for the best. But... but at the same time, I don’t want to mess up. Not here. Not in front of all of Russia.”

Viktor is disappointed when Yuuri disentangles his fingers from the fabric of his sweatshirt and pulls back, but he lets his own arms fall away.

“They’d never forgive you for leaving just to coach someone like me,” Yuuri continues, removing his glasses once more to wipe at his puffy eyes. “But maybe it’s like you said. Maybe that’s my pride talking, too. Maybe I really am just a selfish person.”

Fresh tears spring forth and Yuuri, with a wet sob, throws his hands up to hide them from Viktor.

Viktor’s going crazy. Every tear stings his heart, but he can’t think of the right words to say to make them stop, not when Yuuri is so distressed. Viktor needs time to think. He’s never been great with people crying in front of him, and he’s never let himself cry in front of anyone the way Yuuri is doing now. He’s almost jealous of how honest Yuuri is, actually.

 _That’s a terrible thing to think,_ he reprimands himself. _Yuuri’s hurt and you’re part of the reason._

“Yuuri,” he ventures, “can I hold you?”

The Japanese skater’s hands fall away. Viktor is staring into dark eyes. Dark eyes are staring back, blown wide.

“H-huh?” Yuuri hiccups. His ruddy cheeks are wet and shining.

“Just... you told me to stay next to you when you’re doubting yourself, and I don’t know what else to do to help you calm down.”

Yuuri sucks his entire bottom lip in under his teeth and then lets it slowly reemerge. But he nods, and Viktor’s heart sings.

_Stop that. Now isn’t the time for that._

Viktor stands and takes Yuuri by the forearm, urging him to follow suit. When they round the bed, Viktor sits first and scoots to the far side before tugging at his pupil’s arm in a silent order to do the same. Yuuri hesitates, but eventually sits and then swings his feet up onto the mattress.

Arranging pillows accordingly, Viktor lengthens himself out on his side and reaches for the Japanese skater, gathering him into his arms. “Come here.”

Yuuri complies. He situates himself on the pillow next to Viktor, but stays flat on his back. Though Viktor can feel the nervous tension in his muscles as drapes an arm over Yuuri’s chest and grips the bicep of his far arm, he’s pleased to see that Yuuri’s tears have already dried.

They lay together silently. Viktor closes his eyes and concentrates on the sound of the heater turning on and off to regulate the room’s temperature so that he can distract himself from... other thoughts that might be apt to form at a time like this. Eventually, he feels the rigidness dissipate from the form next to him, a sign that it’s maybe safe to talk.

“Yuuri,” Viktor starts, his eyes still closed.

“Hm?”

“You’re a beautiful skater. You are so talented, and you’ve already come so far. Being your coach has been the most rewarding thing I’ve done in years,” he says. “I’m with you until the end. I’m not going anywhere.”

He feels the brief squeeze of a hand on his arm and opens his eyes to catch Yuuri’s, heavy with exhaustion, but warm.

“Thank you, Viktor,” he whispers.

“You’re welcome,” Viktor smiles.

“Why do you work so hard for me?” Yuuri asks with a yawn. He turns on his side to face Viktor and closes his eyes.

Viktor feels a boulder in his stomach. He knows what he wants to say, but he doesn’t know if he should.

 _If not now, then when?_ he asks himself.

“I told you at dinner,” he replies slowly. “I love you.”

“I know,” Yuuri murmurs.

Viktor freezes. Another strange response, almost as bad as “thank you.”

“You _know_?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Yuuri.”

“Mm?”

“I love you. Do you understand what I mean?”

“Uh huh,” he whispers.

_He says that, but...?_

The lack of reaction to his confession both at dinner and now is unsettling. If Yuuri knows what Viktor means, why aren’t they talking about it? Why is he so calm?

“Yuuri,” Viktor starts again, intending to request that his student explain himself, but Yuuri’s mouth falls open, soft and relaxed.

Yuuri is asleep in Viktor’s bed.

The urge to scream is strong, either because he’s excited to finally share a bed with Yuuri or because he cannot process what Yuuri has just said. Or maybe both. Probably both.

Yuuri said he understood, but Viktor isn't convinced he does. Still, Viktor doesn't want to put words in Yuuri's mouth; if Yuuri doesn't figure it out on his own, it's meaningless.

In any case, it’s not like he can ask for clarification right now. Propping himself up just enough to reach over Yuuri, he turns off the bedside lamp and then resettles his head on the pillow. The Russian closes his eyes, concentrates on the measured rise and fall of the warm body next to him, and tries to sleep.

It takes a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Next time:**  
>  Almost like a marriage proposal. Almost on the same page. Almost failed to qualify for the Final. "Almost" means not quite. It's a fitting word, Yuuri thinks, for him and Viktor. They're almost, but not quite.  
> \--
> 
> I had so much anxiety while writing this, and I'm afraid that things aren't going to quite clear themselves up easily next chapter either. But they're getting closer, I promise. Also, I think Yurio will be making his official debut next chapter. (And I promise I won't dream-sequence you again, especially when it comes to smut!)
> 
> Some links & stuff:  
> The cake they eat after dinner translates to "bird's milk," and I used [this page](http://www.grabandgorecipes.com/birds-milk-cake-ptichye-moloko-%D0%BF%D1%82%D0%B8%D1%87%D1%8C%D0%B5-%D0%BC%D0%BE%D0%BB%D0%BE%D0%BA%D0%BE/) as my working mental image. You can even get the recipe on the site and make it yourself! 
> 
> I based the restaurant they're eating in on a real-life place in Moscow called [Cafe Pushkin](https://cafe-pushkin.ru/), which apparently is so popular that you need reservations well in advance. (It also has great ratings across tons of travel sites, you know, if you're ever in Moscow.)
> 
> Find me on tumblr [@hanarezu-ni](http://www.hanarezu-ni.tumblr.com)!


	5. Misaligned (Yuuri)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being together... it might be a good time. They like each other. They get along. It’d be comfortable. But it wouldn’t be what Yuuri really wanted.
> 
>  _But this is what he’s offering, and that is all you’re going to get,_ Yuuri concludes. _Take it or leave it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS A 10K WORD ROLLERCOASTER I AM SO SORRY *runs away*

Yuuri doesn’t know where he is.

What he does know is that it’s morning and, judging by the light from outside that has tinted his surroundings in an opaque blue, it’s still fairly early. He knows that he is currently stretched out on top of a comforter in a room that _looks_ like his hotel room, but is obviously not because everything is reversed. He knows that no matter how long he waits for his eyes to adjust so he can properly assess the situation, they won’t without help.

_Glasses, glasses, glasses. Where are they?_

Blindly, he reaches out to paw at the small table next to the bed but comes up empty-handed. He rolls from one side to the other, hoping they’ll be on the pillow or on the mattress next to him. Mid-roll, his frames fall from the top of his head and land askew on the bridge of his nose.

He re-positions them gingerly and blinks, bringing his surroundings into focus. It’s the new sharpness that draws an abrupt squeak from the back of his throat. Yuuri slaps a hand to his mouth to keep it from escalating.

_Oh._

On the other side of the bed, his coach is half-curled into a ball with his back to Yuuri. There is a respectable, even chaste, distance between them. No part of them would have touched unless one of them purposefully sought out the other. But there he is, also on top of the comforter, breathing with the deep rhythm of sleep.

The previous day’s events come flooding back to him: Yurio’s declaration in the elevator, his preoccupation with the notion that his time with Viktor might end here in Moscow, dinner in a restaurant that was _so Viktor_ , strong and confusing words over dessert... and the resulting panic attack that had gripped him just as soon as he and Viktor had parted ways.

_That’s right. I came here to talk to Viktor, and then he..._

His cheeks flush at the memory. Five-time world champion Viktor Nikiforov has asked to hold him. And Yuuri had somehow worked up the nerve to let it happen. He shudders as he recalls the weight of Viktor’s arm on his chest and the softness in his voice. It'd been an odd way to support him, but apparently, it’d been just what Yuuri needed.

He doesn’t allow himself to bask in the memory for long because, though falling asleep in Viktor’s embrace is certainly something he had only ever dreamed about, he knows that he never got to the actual heart of his panic attack. He’d come to talk to Viktor, to ask specific questions and say specific things, but in the struggle with his anxiety, he’d completely forgotten the mental script he’d prepared.

But maybe he can do it now.

Yuuri props himself up on his elbow and leans across the bed to jostle the Russian’s shoulder.

“Viktor?”

Viktor’s body only coils into a tighter ball. “Mm.”

He leans further.

“Viktor,” Yuuri calls a bit louder.

The response is a garbled mess of syllables that’s like three languages at once, indiscernible from one another. It’s followed by a low, guttural moan before Viktor is rolling violently, pushing Yuuri back in the process, and fitting himself into Yuuri’s curves. Pressed chest to chest, Viktor mutters something, this time most definitely in Russian, and rolls his hips lazily against Yuuri’s pelvis.

Viktor is half-hard. Yuuri is halfway out the door.

* * *

 

A walk in the cold morning air had _seemed_ like a good idea, but now that he’s walking back to the hotel, he remembers that this is Russia. He’d gone to his room to grab his coat and wallet and to switch out his pajama shorts for a pair of pants but hadn’t had the insight to grab his cap or pull on an extra layer or three. His coat is doing only the bare minimum, but at least the small brown paper bags he’s carrying are warm.

He’d tried to clear his mind as he walked along the streets near the hotel, but he kept coming back to the disturbingly vivid image and feeling of Viktor curled up against him, of his warmth and how he seemed to fit so perfectly into Yuuri’s spaces, of his usually sharp features made round in the total relaxation of sleep, of his morning... condition. And then suddenly, Yuuri had realized he was on the verge of being very lost.

Blankets of snow had turned all the streets into nearly identical scenes, and he couldn’t make sense of signs that might help. When he’d reached for his phone to consult a map he could read, he’d found his pockets empty. As he retraced his steps, Yuuri forced himself to concentrate, pushing this morning’s shock to the back of his mind as not to turn himself around again. That’s when he’d stumbled upon a small bakery with the most _amazing_ smells wafting through the propped open door. Through the power of gesturing and limited Russian vocabulary (and a shaky handle of his nerves), Yuuri had managed to buy something to bring back to Viktor.

Despite the chill, Yuuri takes slow strides to give himself time to think. He’s still determined to talk with his coach about what had _really_ caused him to fall apart last night. It’s just that the original script he’d written in his head is already outdated and he wants to make sure he picks his words carefully.

He’s standing in front of Viktor’s room before he knows it, and the right words are still a complete mystery. But the food is already losing its heat, so he knocks on the door anyway. It flies open before he finishes the third knock.

“ _Yuuri!”_

Viktor stands in the door, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. His hair is a mess, his face is red, and he’s wearing a lush, pink cashmere sweater with his old sweatpants. He looks ridiculous. Yuuri laughs.

“I don’t know _what’s_ so funny, Yuuri. I was worried sick! Where _were_ you?" the taller man gestures erratically. “I knocked on your door, but you didn’t answer, and I was _just_ about to go out looking for you!”

“That’s silly. What if I’d come back and you were gone? You would have missed breakfast,” he says, holding up the two bags.

“Who _cares_ about breakfast, I was worried that you--,” Viktor looks down and inspects the label and logo printed in black on the plain sacks. “Oh! That’s the place I was telling you about! How did you know?”

Yuuri steps forward, forcing Viktor to step aside so that he can pass. “I didn’t,” he says. “I just found it when I got lost and it looked decent.”

Viktor closes the door gently behind them and follows Yuuri inside. “It’s more than decent. Everything they make is divine. But what do you mean you got lost? Why didn’t you call?”

Yuuri puts the bags down on the nightstand and shrugs out of his coat, which he drapes over the chair that is still placed awkwardly at the foot of the bed. He scans the bed, then the floor, and bends down to reach under the bed frame when he spots what he’s looking for. When he straightens up again, he shows Viktor his phone.

Viktor sighs and drops heavily into a sit on the edge of the bed before reaching for the bags. “I was supposed to buy _you_ breakfast,” he complains.

“I was awake,” Yuuri shrugs. “Plus, I owe you for last night.”

Viktor pulls the bags into his lap. “I already told you, I _wanted_ to take you to that place, and--”

“Not that. For um... you know. Last night. I was a mess.”

Viktor snaps his head to look Yuuri directly in the eye. Yuuri, in turn, snaps to attention. It’s unnerving, the way those blue eyes can pierce Yuuri so easily, keep him in place.

“Yuuri, you don’t _owe_ me anything,” Viktor says. “I’m happy you came to me. I don’t know if I was any help, but I hope you’ll come to me again in the future.”

Yuuri swallows, then nods his head dumbly. “Um... you helped a lot, actually...”

Viktor’s eyes soften and his mouth relaxes into an easy beam. “Then I’m glad.”

That smile infects Yuuri. He returns it instinctively, drawing an even wider smile from Viktor.

“So, let’s see what you bought,” Viktor says, turning his attention back to the brown paper bags in his lap. He gingerly unrolls the tops and peers inside. “Oh! Blinchiki!”

Leaving a space between them, Yuuri lowers himself to a sit beside Viktor. “I didn’t know what was what, but they look like rolled-up crepes so I figured they were a safe bet.”

“I _love_ blinchiki,” Viktor says as he eagerly removes one from the bag. “Though they’re more like pancakes than crepes.”

“This one has some kind of meat in it, and mushrooms I think. And this one has cheese. Ricotta, maybe? And that one has strawberry jam, and the other one is... honey?” he says, pointing to each one as Viktor removes each one and, using the flattened bags as a makeshift plate, places them on the bed in the space between them. “I didn’t know which one you’d like, so I may have gone overboard.”

Viktor chuckles and picks up the jam-filled roll. “This one is my favorite.”

_The sweetest one. Somehow, I figured._

Yuuri can’t help but giggle when Viktor takes a bite and his eyes practically roll into the back of his head. “ _So_ good. Thank you, Yuuri.”

“You’re welcome,” Yuuri answers. Preferring more savory flavors, Yuuri chooses the meat filling (and is glad he did, because it _is_ , as Viktor had put it, _divine_ ).

They eat in an easy silence, save the occasional “vkusno!” from Viktor. When they finish, they split the cheese-filled blinchiki between them, and Viktor requests to bring the last one to the rink to give away. “I’m stuffed, and as your coach, I can’t condone you eating any more than this before you head into practice. And Yakov likes them,” he says.

As they wipe their fingers and mouths with a fresh towel that Viktor brings back from the bathroom, Yuuri finds himself stealing long glances at the silver-haired man. He’s still wearing that ridiculously mismatched sweats-and-cashmere combination, and he’s humming to himself as he crumples the paper bags and walks them over to a trash can, and he’s _so_ comely, and everything just feels so _peaceful._

 _I’ll talk to him about it later,_ Yuuri tells himself. _Not right now. I don’t want to ruin this moment._

“Give me just a minute to finish changing and brush my teeth, and we can head out,” Viktor says as he moves to the closet to remove a pair of brown slacks from a hanger. As he passes a mirror mounted on the wall, he stops and frowns at his reflection. “And fix my hair.”

“I need to go back to my room so I can change, too. I didn’t have nearly enough clothes on for this weather,” Yuuri says, standing. He gathers his coat and phone and hugs them to his chest. “I’ll meet you in the lobby,” he smiles.

Viktor beams at him again.

_Definitely later._

* * *

 

Practice is going... well. _Really_ well, actually. So well that Yuuri realizes he’s actually showing off a bit for the other skaters. Maybe he can intimidate them a little. Though he throws in some practice jumps and bits of choreography from his free skate, Viktor has him running through “Eros” more than anything else.

“Just because you did it so flawlessly in China doesn’t mean you can just skate by here,” Viktor had said straight-faced.

“That’s an awful pun,” Yuuri had groaned.

Viktor, ever-terrible at the art of poker faces, had let his lips slide into an easy grin immediately. “Your coach expects a strong start heading into the free skate. Give it everything you’ve got.”

So Yuuri calls upon his imagination. At first, he only replays the story of the playboy and the most beautiful woman in town, but that quickly becomes stale. Without meaning to, his mind moves on to more concrete things: the first time Viktor had touched him in the dusty old banquet room that had become his bedroom, a thumb brushed over his lips at Ice Castle, Viktor’s strip show at a restaurant in China, their public kiss (even though it had turned out to be nothing), the fantasies he used to let off steam when he was alone and overly stimulated. But the feeling of Viktor pressing _all_ of himself into Yuuri this morning is the forefront of it all.

Yuuri finds himself adding flourishes here and there; he extends his fingers more gracefully like he’s stroking skin, he pushes his hips out just a little further during his step sequences to draw attention to them. During his Ina Bauer, he arches his back more severely than he thought was possible for him. His tongue peeks out every so often. His body is on fire. His senses are heightened but feel fuzzy at the edges. He is intoxicated.

_This is it. This is eros._

When practice winds down, Yuuri, flushed and panting, skates to where Viktor is waiting with his skate guards. The Russian’s face is... indescribable. He looks _so_ serious, but his cheeks are pink and his nostrils are flared. And those eyes... they’re sharp and bright and penetrating, and for a moment, Yuuri wonders if he’s about to be scolded. Maybe he’d let his imagination get the better of him. Maybe he’d looked like an idiot.

“You looked amazing out there, Yuuri,” Victor says, breathless like _he’s_ the one who has just skated his heart out.

“It _felt_ amazing,” Yuuri says with a relieved sigh. He takes the guards and steadies himself on Viktor’s shoulder while he slips one over his left skate.

“If you skate like that tomorrow, you’ll have no problem at all. The crowd will go crazy for you.”

“I hope so,” Yuuri smiles. He switches hands and places the other skate guard. “I need the crowd on my side. I hate the thought of them actively rooting against me.”

“Why would they do that?” Viktor asks as if the possibility had never occurred to him.

_Of course it hasn’t. It’s not like he’s ever experienced a hostile crowd._

“For stealing you away,” Yuuri clarifies as he lets his hand fall from its resting place on Viktor’s shoulder. “We’re in your home country, you know.”

“Ah. That,” Viktor says, all at once uninterested.

“But I’ll get them to love me by showing them my love first. I’ll put all the eros I’ve got into it.

”Your love for _who_ , exactly?”

_You. You. You, you, you._

“For them. Russia,” Yuuri answers. “You scolded me last night for not loving my audience, right?”

“Right.” Viktor’s shoulders relax every so slightly and the corners of his mouth curl up into a closed smile. “Well, they’ll definitely fall in love if you’re anything at all like you were just now. You’ll be amazing, and they won’t be able to help themselves.”

Yuuri lets the praise fortify his confidence as they head into the changing area.

* * *

 

Yuuri _was_ amazing. Drawing upon the same images he’d harnessed during practice, Yuuri had felt a sort of switch flip in himself, even before he’d formally introduced to the spectators. He’d skated the best short program of his life, had felt bright and _dangerous,_ had been a flame gliding atop of the ice, threatening to melt it with burning passion. The crowd had gotten to their feet and cheered so wildly that he thought his eardrums might burst. He’d blown away his personal best, and he was _proud_. Viktor had cheered too, almost as loud as the crowd.

Upon reuniting rinkside, the Russian had slung an arm around him to escort him to the kiss and cry, murmuring compliment after compliment. Yuuri’s heart sang.

 _And then he got on one knee and **kissed my skate** , _Yuuri thinks, and that had made his heart _scream._

Even while he waited to see if JJ would top his score, Yuuri felt _confident_ going into the free skate. Yuuri felt relaxed. He felt in control. He might actually win this thing, or at least qualify for the Final without any drama. But he only learns about JJ’s score much later, because his sister had called and suddenly Yuuri is back in Viktor’s hotel room, helping him pack his bags.

“I know Yakov already agreed,” Viktor says as he pulls hanger after hanger from the small closet and drapes them over an arm, “but I still don’t feel right about this.”

Yuuri is sitting on the edge of the bed, folding the first pile of shirts and slacks.

_How much clothing does one man **need** for just a few days?_

“You _have_ to go,” Yuuri insists as he concentrates on lining up the seams of a particularly expensive pair of jeans. “You’ll regret it if you wait and he...” He doesn’t finish the sentence. It feels like bad luck.

_Trust me. I’d know._

Viktor strides across the room with the rest of his garments and, settling on the opposite side of Yuuri’s stack of folded pants, sets to work alongside Yuuri. They go about it in silence, eyes averted from one another.

As he goes about folding three white collared shirts that he swears are exactly the same, Yuuri can’t help thinking about the day he came home from school to find a brown ball of fluff sitting in the main entrance. Besides skating and ballet lessons, Vicchan was the first thing Yuuri had ever really wanted. He’d read all the books and had bookmarked every web page he could find about keeping poodles. He took notes on the healthiest dog foods and looked up nearby places where he might be able to find obedience classes. Armed with all of his research, he’d marched into the TV room one night and had begged his parents. They said they’d think about it. And then, there Vicchan was, _totally_ the wrong size poodle, but wagging his tail and yipping happily, and Yuuri was instantly smitten.

Vicchan had seen Yuuri through the awkwardness of junior high, the late nights of cramming for his high school entrance exams, the loneliness that came with being too busy between studying, ballet, and skating to make many friends or socialize with the few he had. After high school, Yuuri had packed up and moved to another country to chase his dreams, leaving the toy poodle in his family’s care. Maybe Vicchan wouldn’t have even remembered him anyway. He’d been gone a long time. But Vicchan had been his savior more than once, and Yuuri hadn’t been there for him in the end. And that haunted him.

He wouldn’t wish that kind of guilt on anyone, but especially not Viktor, the boy who had fueled Yuuri’s desire for a poodle in the first place. Makkachin had been by Viktor’s side just as long as Vicchan had been by Yuuri’s. So when Mari called to tell Yuuri that Makkachin may have choked on the mochi set before Vicchan’s altar, that he might not make it, Yuuri had _insisted_ Viktor fly back. _Tonight._

At length, Viktor breaks the silence with a labored sigh. “I know you’re right, but I don’t want to regret leaving you alone at a time like this, either,” he complains as he picks up a lavender dress shirt and smooths it over his lap.

“Makkachin needs you,” Yuuri says.

“But what about you?”

“What _about_ me?”

“You...you don’t need me to stay here?” Viktor asks, his voice a little too quiet, a little too shy.

Yuuri fights to keep the blush he feels rising in his cheeks at bay before he dares to meet eyes with Viktor. Honestly, he can already feel the panic edging his senses and he’s not sure how he’ll manage to keep them from creeping inward once Viktor is gone, but now is not the time to be selfish.

“...I’ll be fine,” he says when their eyes do meet.

_I think. I hope._

“Oh,” Viktor says. “Well... okay. That’s good, then.” He hunches over the shirt in his lap, deftly lining up stitching and panels in a way that leaves not one unnecessary crease or wrinkle. His facial muscles are tight, controlled, and make him feel suddenly as many miles away as an airplane is about to take him.

_Did that **hurt** him?_

“I mean... you know,” Yuuri stumbles in a feeble attempt to backtrack. “It’s just...”

“Just what?” Viktor says, coolly.

“Viktor, it’s _Makkachin._ The other night, when I asked you what love meant to you, you talked about a place without pretense and filling in all the missing parts. Hasn’t Makkachin done _all of that_ for _you_?,” Yuuri stresses. “He loves you, and you love him. Of course you should be there. So stop worrying about me. I’ll be okay. Go, for the both of us. Because I love him, too.”

“You’re so worried about him, huh?” Viktor sighs as he matches and rolls socks together. “You pick the strangest times to be selfless.”

“I remember what it was like to not be there for my dog. It felt... still _feels_ awful. I’m worried about him, but I’m mostly worried about _you,”_ Yuuri retorts. Viktor’s petulance is becoming annoying and throwing this last sweater at him would feel amazing, but he restrains himself.

“ _Me?_ This is _your_ big moment, Yuuri. What’s the point of worrying about _me?”_

“Because I _love_ you!” Yuuri blurts out in his exasperation.

It’s not like him to speak before thinking, but his head lags behind his mouth by mere seconds and it’s just enough time for the regret to settle into his chest. He shouldn’t have said it, but he _did_ say it, and now the words are hanging heavy in the air between the two men. Viktor’s face is a disturbing mirror image of Yuuri’s: eyes large and questioning, brows lifted high, mouth ajar

_Shit, shit, shit. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I have to..._

Yuuri opens his mouth to... say what? He doesn’t know, but he just needs to say _something_ , because this is absolutely the worst timing, and he’s _such_ an idiot. Yes, Viktor had said it, too -- twice in fact -- but Viktor didn’t mean it _like that_ and Yuuri knew it... _knows_ it. Viktor’s definition of love is like agape _._ It’s selfless. It’s all about giving and doing for someone else, even if time would bring it to an end eventually, even if there’s no payoff. There’s nothing urgent or consuming or exclusive about the way Viktor thinks about love.

Yuuri’s love isn’t quite like that. Certainly, he’d be happy if he could create a safe place for Viktor, to be allowed to even _attempt_ to fill in Viktor’s missing pieces -- if he even _has_ any, because this is _Viktor Nikiforov, a_ five-time champion, a living legend, admired and respected by all. Viktor has done that for him, and that’s why Yuuri believes the Russian when he says he loves Yuuri. But Yuuri _wants_ Viktor, in all senses of the word. He wants to _take_ from Viktor. He wants to be the _only_ _one_ Viktor gives anything to.

It’s totally possible that, if Yuuri confessed what kind of relationship he _really_ wanted with his coach, Viktor might go along with it. He’s a known playboy after all; he might think of it as a fun little game. But Yuuri knows their time together will end someday soon, and he would only be satisfied with forever. He’s not strong enough to let himself have only a taste. And maybe that’s why he hadn’t been able to bring himself to say it back when Viktor had told him he loved him. It would have felt deceitful. He _knew_ his kind of love would be too different, too burdensome, and too heavy for someone like Viktor.

“Um,” Yuuri swallows, “what I mean is--”

The rest of his words disappear in a gasp, because Viktor leans forward on one arm, over the neat stacks of shirts and pants ready to be put into Viktor’s hard shell suitcase, and presses his lips against Yuuri’s cheek. Then the corner of his mouth. Then, gently, to his lips. It’s a soft appeal for permission.

 _“Yuuri,”_ Viktor breathes into his mouth, eyes lidded.

It’s not like Viktor has never said his name before, but this time, it hits Yuuri hard. His whole body aches. He wants to throw his arms around this man and bruise his lips on sculpted cheeks and that sharp jawline. He wants to lose himself in the feeling of Viktor curving into Yuuri, the way he’d unconsciously done this morning. He wants to moan Viktor’s name right back while grabbing at the nape of his neck. But he doesn’t -- can’t-- do or say anything. It’d be absolutely the wrong move. It’d be the start of false hopes, unrealistic expectations, and eventual disaster. He can’t do that to himself, and he doesn’t want to put that kind of pressure of Viktor.

He remains rigid and wide-eyed. But it’s only when Viktor moves in again, this time with his lips parted, that Yuuri pulls back slightly.

Viktor does the same, frowning. “Yuuri?”

“Wait. Uh... wait.”

“What’s wrong?” Viktor presses, his brows turning upward. He’s still _so_ close.

“I didn’t know... um... that is,” he bumbles, scrubbing his face with one hand. “What uh...are you...why?” The words won’t line themselves up properly.

_You’ve ruined everything. Good going, idiot._

Viktor sits back and bends his head to scratch at the back of it.

“...I love you...” he trails as he tilts his face up once more.

Yuuri grimaces. The guilt is already eating him alive.

“Yeah,” he manages in a whisper. He drops his gaze to the hands can’t help but wring over and over again.

“And you love me, right?” Viktor continues.

“Yeah.”

A painfully long pause. Yuuri might throw up.

“...but your love and mine...it’s not the same, is it?” Viktor finally murmurs.

And there is it. The thing that had sent Yuuri into a panic, the thing he _knew_ the moment Viktor had said he loved him. The thing that he’d meant to talk over with Viktor but had been putting off. But now Viktor has forced the issue and Yuuri still doesn’t have a mental speech outline ready. So he says the only thing he _can_ say.

“...yeah.”

Viktor sucks in a chestful of air and stands upon the exhale. He silently gathers the piles of clothing and takes them to the open suitcase sitting on a luggage rack next to the nightstand. He drops them in recklessly, undoing a lot of the careful work Yuuri had put into making sure he didn’t damage Viktor’s upscale wardrobe.

“Viktor,” Yuuri pleads gently. “I’m sorry, I--”

Viktor turns and gives him _that_ smile. The one he gives to reporters and cameramen. The one he flashes to fans who push to the front of crowds to praise his skating and ask for autographs or present him with another flower or poodle-shaped plush. The one Yuuri used to love but now completely _hates_ because he’s been privy to the Russian’s real smiles.

“Don’t be sorry,” Viktor says with a wave of the hand. “I just misunderstood is all. Honest mistake. Just forget it.”

But that calculated, protective expression coupled with the churning in Yuuri’s stomach doesn’t make it easy to just _forget it._ Forgetting is impossible.

_This is China all over again._

The conversation he had with Phichit after Viktor had drunkenly fondled Yuuri repeats loudly in Yuuri’s head. Phichit had urged him to just straight up ask Viktor what he was thinking, and Yuuri had rejected the idea outright because he was _terrible_ with that sort of thing. Confrontation was at the top the list of things he hated, right above carrots and spiders. But right now, with Viktor on the verge of leaving, Yuuri is convinced that unless he gets over himself at this very moment so that they can talk this out, he and Viktor may not recover this time around.

“Viktor,” he says firmly as he stands. “Wait, let’s just t--”

The telephone on the nightstand rings with those loud bells that make Yuuri jump of how unaccustomed he is to land lines anymore. The ringer demands immediate attention and bullies Yuuri’s determination to the sidelines. Viktor picks up the receiver and answers in Russian. A brief conversation ensues, which Yuuri can’t follow at all. He’s left standing awkwardly in front of Viktor, whose gaze is cast, unseeingly, upon the empty phone cradle and number pad.

“Spasibo,” Viktor says flatly before replacing the handset and turning to Yuuri. “My car is here.”

“Oh.”

“I have to go.”

“Okay,” Yuuri nods.

Another impossibly long pause passes between them. Yuuri racks his brain for the perfect turn of phrase he can offer _right now_ that will soothe the wounds that are about to be left open and gaping, but he’s never been clever with words. As usual, it’s Viktor who extends the olive branch first.

“Listen, Yuuri. I’m fine. Really.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I’m happy you told me, even if it’s not the same. I won’t do anything that makes you uncomfortable, and I don’t expect anything either. So don’t worry about it, okay? If you let this affect your performance tomorrow, I will never forgive you.”

He says the last bit with a gentler smile, which admittedly gives Yuuri a microscopic bit of comfort. So he just nods again.

“Walk me down to the lobby?” Viktor asks as he zips up his luggage.

“Okay,” Yuuri concedes. He wishes he could say something better, but all the other words have abandoned him.

* * *

 

Yuuri did let it affect his skating, at least in the beginning. He slept in short spurts and ended up showing up for the morning’s open practice nearly forty-five minutes late. Yakov had caught his eye as he'd laced his skates but had the good sense not to say anything about his tardiness. He’d offered pointers here in there, always in as few words as possible and always in passing when Yuuri had just happened to skate by. Yuuri couldn’t blame him for being hands-off. The whole situation was unheard of. They don’t know each other and naturally, Yakov’s primary concern is Yurio.

During his free skate, Yuuri had floundered a bit. But from the moment his music started, somewhere between the piano and strings, he found the determination to _not blow this._ If not for his own sake, then for Viktor’s. He wouldn’t allow anyone to think poorly of Viktor’s judgment or role as a coach. He wouldn’t let Viktor’s work go to waste.

_And I can’t just let myself run away anymore. I want to see this through to the Final, and I want to do it with Viktor by my side. So I have to pull this out. I have to talk to him. I have to settle things properly. I owe him that much for everything he’s done... everything he’s given up._

Through sheer determination and at least some temporary peace of mind, Yuuri managed a fourth place finish, just barely qualifying for the Final. He was relieved but drained. It’d taken all the mental and physical fortitude he had to do it, and while winning gold at the Final had always been the goal, Yuuri was now surer than ever that it was also the finish line.

In the hours following the event, while Yuuri shuffled between handshakes, interviews, and official business, Viktor had tried to call twelve different times. Yuuri had silenced every single one. He was determined to talk, but not just yet. He needed time to reflect, to plan his script. Eventually, Viktor had sent him a single text message.

 

 **[Viktor]** Makkachin is going to be fine. Please call me. Doesn’t matter what time. 

 

He hadn’t responded to that, either.

When everything was over and done, Yuuri had gone back to his hotel room, but the quiet made him restless. Grabbing his jacket and coat, he’d gone out into the snow to circle the block once or ten times. And that’s when Yurio had found him and _attacked him_ with food, insisting he _definitely_ hadn’t asked his grandfather to whip up a batch of katsudon piroshki just for Yuuri’s upcoming birthday.

Yuuri had invited him to a nearby cafe as thanks (and to get warm because honestly, how does anyone live here?).

“Oi,” Yurio snaps from across the small circular table. “Not that I feel bad about using your money, but this defeats the purpose of giving you a birthday present, you know.”

“So it _was_ a present,” Yuuri chuckles as he eases back into the chair his coat is draped over and lifts an oversized mug, steaming with tea, to his lips.

“No, I _told_ you. My grandpa just _happened_ to make a batch, so I thought I’d give you some. You should be _grateful_ I even spared you a thought.”

“I am,” Yuuri says. “They’re delicious, thank you. And please thank your grandpa for me, too.”

“Whatever,” Yurio scoffs, leaning his chin into his hand and pushing his empty coffee cup to the side. “So, did you hear about the dumb dog? Viktor said he pulled through.”

Yuuri nods. “He sent me a message.”

Picking at a bit of fuzz on the sleeve of his gray sweatshirt, the Russian teen rolls his eyes. “You could at least reply to him, you know.”

Yuuri blinks. “Who says I haven’t?”

“Viktor does,” Yurio sighs, turning to the back of his chair to fish his phone from a jacket pocket. He turns on the display and holds it up to show Yuuri the glaring red bubble above his message app boasting twenty-three unread messages. “This is just since we sat down. It’s been like this all night.”

“That idiot,” Yuuri starts, reaching for the phone.

Yurio pulls his arm back, sharp eyes daring Yuuri to even _think_ about touching his phone. “He’s worried about you. He watched a live stream, so he knows how it went. And now you’re ignoring him for _whatever_ reason-- I don’t want to know-- and he’s sulking like Mila does after every single breakup.”

Yuuri sighs and runs a finger around the rim of his mug. “I... did something stupid.”

“Look, Katsudon. I don’t know what happened, and I _really_ don’t care. But just call him back so he stops texting me. It’s annoying. You owe me at least that much for the birthday present.”

“I thought it wasn’t a present.”

“Shut _up. God,_ you’re mouthy. You two deserve each other.”

* * *

 

After a _supremely_ hot shower, Yuuri sits in the center of his bed in a pair of navy boxers and a white undershirt and stares down at Viktor’s contact information on his phone. It’s coming up on 10:45 pm; Yuuri does the mental math to work out the time difference.

_Nearly 5:00 am in Hasetsu. Viktor will probably be up by now. Now or never, I guess._

He taps the button to place the call. It only rings once.

“ _Yuuri_.” Russian accent. Quiet. Comforting. Relieved.

With the phone to his ear, Yuuri closes his eyes, tilts his chin up, and exhales the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding in.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.”

“Did I wake you?”

“No,” Viktor says, though he lets slip a shallow yawn. “I was waiting up for you to call.“

“How is Makkachin?”

“Fine... a little out of it. Staying with the vet for the night just in case, but they’re not worried. I’ll pick him up at noon.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah.”

They both go quiet. Yuuri flops back onto his pillows and starfishes his body, covering as much of the mattress as he can with spread limbs.

“Yuuri,” Viktor inquires after a while, “why did you ignore my calls?”

“I didn’t know what to say,” he admits. “I messed up a little. My program, I mean.”

“But you made it.”

“I almost didn’t.”

“But you did, all on your own, and you were beautiful. I guess you were right. You didn’t need me there after all.”

Yuuri’s brows contort, setting loose a pattern of creases and folds over his forehead -- the tell-tale precursor to tears.

“I _wanted_ you here,” he chokes out suddenly.

Hot, salty drops spill over his lash lines. They run down his cheeks and drip from his jawline onto the collar of his t-shirt. A few hit the corner of his lips; he licks those away and wills himself not to let this turn into an actual sob.

Yuuri can’t be sure of course, but he feels like Viktor is smiling into the phone. “So honest,” the Russian murmurs.

“Viktor, I’m so sorry,” Yuuri babbles. “I know you told me not to worry... not to let what happened get to me, but I did. And then I ignored you. I’ve been awful to you, and you’ve only ever been wonderful to me, and I’m just really, really sorry. About everything. Please don’t hate me.”

Viktor chuckles lightly on the other end. “These sorts of dramatics aren’t like you,” he says, “but it’s sort of refreshing.”

“Sorry,” Yuuri sniffs again.

“Hush. It’s fine. I’m not sure what ‘everything’ is, but apology accepted. And you know I could never hate you.”

Yuuri nods though he knows Viktor can’t see it. They fall back into a contemplative silence, though it’s not as tense as the previous stretch. Yuuri pinches the collar of his shirt and brings it up and over his face to wipe the salty residue sticking to his skin.

“Are you alright?” Viktor asks quietly.

“Yeah,” Yuuri says with a sobering sigh. “I’m worn out, I guess. Thinking too much, probably. And...”

Yuuri stops himself. The words on the tip of his tongue might get him into trouble again. But Viktor pushes.

“And?” he asks.

“...I miss you,” Yuuri lets loose.

He braces himself for the worst, but it never comes.

“I miss you, too.”

 _Don’t say that,_ Yuuri silently begs.

“Really?”

“Mmhmm. I wish I was there so I could celebrate with you.”

Yuuri’s heart lurches, setting off a slow hum of electricity through his skin like he’s being charged up.

“Where are you?” he asks tentatively.

“In my room,” Viktor says. “In bed.”

“Oh.” A dull heat ignites in Yuuri’s chest and slowly spreads outward, first up his neck, then down his arms and into his gut. When it reaches his groin, Yuuri’s hand moves downward to cup himself like he might somehow stop it from progressing any further. The contact of his palm through his boxers has the exact _opposite_ effect.

“How about you?” Viktor asks.

“Same,” Yuuri answers, shakily. “In bed.”

_This is dangerous._

“Good boy,” Viktor says through the speaker. “You need your rest.”

He knows Viktor meant it as a joke, but Viktor’s word choice _does_ something to Yuuri. “Ah. Uh-huh.”

His fingers trace the shape of his cock through fabric, eliciting a series of small twitches. Objectively, he knows this is _really_ dumb of him given all his reservations about inflicting heartache on himself and the freshness of their reconciliation. But it’s been a long, emotionally exhausting day, and despite what many people say about him -- “Yuuri, you’re so mature”, “Yuuri’s too mild-mannered”, “Yuuri, how come you never let yourself just _go with the flow?”--_ Yuuri knows better than anyone that he is actually impulsive and selfish and doesn’t always make well-thought-out decisions... bad traits that only get magnified when he’s drained like this. He’s a volcano: all pressure and slow churning violence that erupts from time to time when he needs a release.

He chokes back a small gasp because he knows this is forbidden.

“...Yuuri?”

“Y-yeah?”

“Maybe you should get some sleep...” Viktor is saying, but Yuuri cuts him off.

“Can... can you just talk to me?”

“About what?”

“Anything. My skating today, if you want. I just... need the noise,” he says into the phone as he screws his eyes shut.

Viktor doesn’t answer right away like he’s waiting, or listening, for something. “I think it’d be better if we leave the critique for when you get back,” he offers. “But I thought you were wonderful, Yuuri. Of course there were some issues, but you looked so graceful.”

Yuuri slips his hands beneath the band of his boxers and thumbs at his head, before taking himself, already half-erect, into his hand. He cradles his phone with his shoulder and uses his now-free hand to push his underwear down to his thighs.

“What about..the audience?” he asks, working himself lazily. “I can’t r-remember what happened at the end.” He works himself lazily. “Do you think they loved it anyway?”

“They were infatuated,” Viktor says, his voice thick and low. “You always captivate everyone. They didn’t dare to look away, and neither did I.”

Viktor is saying all the right things, and it’s so wrong. A light moan slips past Yuuri’s lips and then time seems to stop; he thought he could be stealthier than this. Yuuri’s one hand comes to a standstill; the other hand takes hold of his phone once again and he presses it against his ear _hard._ He can’t hear anything. Not a breath. Not a rustle. Not a single sound.

“Uh...”

“....Yuuri...” Viktor starts slowly. “...Are you...?”

“Um.”

Viktor’s breath hitches.

“Oh my god,” Yuuri mutters. He draws his hand away from his length and covers his face with it. “Viktor... shit. This is.. I... Sorry. I don’t.... it’s lonely, and you were saying...um, it’s just... everything is weird right now and I wasn’t thinking? It just sort of...!”

“Yuuri,” Viktor interrupts. “ _Yuuri.”_

Yuuri only manages a mortified gurgle in reply.

“It’s _okay,”_ Viktor says. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not _fine!_ ” Yuuri protests, already reaching to find the band of his boxers so he can pull them back up. “Sorry. I’ll hang up--”

“Don’t hang up,” Viktor interjects. Then the sound of air being sucked in. “...I don’t mind.”

 _What?_ Yuuri thinks. He also apparently says it aloud.

“I don’t mind,” Viktor repeats. “You can finish.”

“Viktor...” Yuuri starts, incredulous.

“Finish,” Viktor says, his voice a deep velvet. “You’ve been carrying a lot of stress. You’ll feel better if you finish. If you want me to talk, I will.”

“I-I can’t just ask you to...God, you must think I’m disgust--”

“Yuuri, I have never once thought that about you, so put that out of your mind this instant,” Viktor scolds. “I couldn’t be there for you today, so let me do this for you now. Please.”

Yuuri stares forward, phone pressed to the shell of his ear... and he nods. He cradles his phone with his shoulder again and slowly lets both of his hands creep down the length of his body. He takes up his member once more in a loose hold that allows him to roll his fist over his head with every up-stroke. His other hand goes to the left side of his chest, where he brushes his thumbs over the small, nubby peak that adorns the flat expanse of muscle. He bites back another moan.

“You don’t have to hold back,” Viktor buzzes into his ear.

“I don’t...” Yuuri begins, his eyes already clamping themselves shut tight as he tries to focus on both of his hands _and_ Viktor’s voice. Another flick of his nipple has him breathing out heavily. “ _God.”_

 _“See?”_ Viktor says, voice heavy. “It’s better if you don’t inhibit yourself. Just worry about what feels good.”

Somehow, Viktor’s accent seems thicker than usual. It drives Yuuri crazy.

 _Fine,_ he thinks, petulant in the haze of his desire _. I won’t hold back, then. We’ve already crossed the line, anyway._

He rolls to one side, pinning the phone between the side of his head and the pillow. He quickens the pace of his strokes and brings the first two fingers of his other hand to his mouth, where he laves his tongue over them. Curling himself up into a ball, Yuuri reaches around his backside and presses his index finger to his entrance. With minimal coaxing, the ring of coiled muscles relaxes and he pushes inward.

“ _Fuck,”_ he hisses.

“Do you want me to talk to you, Yuuri?” Viktor asks.

“No,” Yuuri says flatly. He’d asked Viktor to talk in an attempt to cover up what he was doing. What was the point now? “Just listen.”

“All right,” Viktor acquiesces.

Yuuri takes his time. He lets the small sounds and thick gasps fall out of his mouth freely as he slowly slides his finger in and out of himself. His length is hard and heavy against his stomach but rolling his fist over the length of it isn’t doing enough. After a while, he decides to abandon stroking altogether. Instead, he removes his finger from his hole and rolls to his back and brings his knees close to his chest before spreading them apart as far so he has better access to himself.

Strings of short, punchy Japanese escape him with every gasp as he pushes both fingers past his rim and sets to searching for the spot he knows will send him overboard. When he finds it, he curls his fingers, coaxing his building orgasm to come forth. It doesn’t take long.

“I’m gonna come,” Yuuri moans mostly to himself; he’s only half aware that Viktor is still listening in, which must be why he hadn’t noticed sooner that Viktor’s breathing had become ragged and labored. But he hears it now, and when Viktor makes a sound nearly identical to his own lewd noises, the part of Yuuri that had forgotten about Viktor is suddenly _very_ aware.

“V...Viktor?” he squeaks, slowing his fingers for the moment. “What...?”

“Sorry,” Viktor groans. “Listening to you.... C-couldn’t help it.”

_Oh my god, this is... what are we doing?_

“Keep going, Yuuri,” Viktor says, breathless.

Yuuri’s eyes are wide, pupils blown with a mixture of lust, disbelief, and embarrassment. But stopping now will keep him riled and somehow, he feels, it’d be even _more_ embarrassing. He curls his fingers and runs them over the small bulge of his prostate until he’s seeing stars. They explode in his peripherals just as he explodes in thick, white ribbons over his stomach and, unfortunately, his bed covers.

Through gritted teeth, he calls Viktor’s name not once, not twice, but _three times_ in increasing levels of desperation as he rides out the spasms. Between the second and third invocation, Yuuri is vaguely aware of a muffled sound on the other end of the line, like Viktor’s just been punched in the gut but has bit his tongue to prevent himself from screaming.

Yuuri’s chest heaves as he slowly comes down. Viktor breathes unevenly into Yuuri’s ear for some time, but eventually, they both settle into calmer patterns.

Yuuri can’t bring himself to say a single word, so he lays there, sprawled, hot, and sticky until Viktor whispers his name into the phone.

“Are you okay?”

“Mm,” Yuuri grunts, his eyes on the ceiling. “You?”

“Great,” Viktor says.

Silence.

 _Okay. Silence is fine. This is just... a weird thing we did once. For stress relief. Let’s never mention it again,_ Yuuri begs Viktor telepathically.

“Yuuri?”

“Hm?”

“You called my name.”

_Shit._

“Were you thinking about me?” Viktor asks.

_How can you ask me that? I can’t answer that._

_“Yuuri,_ you _were,_ weren’t you? _”_ Viktor whines when Yuuri doesn’t answer.

“You told me to do it!” Yuuri retorts a little too loudly.

“I know, but I thought.... _God_ , Yuuri... I... what _is_ this?”

The Japanese skater’s face is white hot. He knew it. He knew this is how it would go, and he’d let himself do it anyway. How were they going to face each other when Yuuri returns to Japan?

“Is this part of your love?” Viktor asks suddenly.

“Huh?”

“You said you love me. Is this part of it? Thinking about me while you’re touching yourself?”

“Viktor, I don’t think that’s--”

“Answer me,” the Russian demands. The sharpness of it makes all the muscles in Yuuri’s body tense up at once, completely negating the entire purpose of this... whatever this was.

“Y _es_ , I was thinking of you,” Yuuri spits into the phone. “I _always_ think of you, Victor. I always _have,_ ever since I was old enough to _have_ these kinds of thoughts! There, I’ve said it. Are you satisfied? Are you sufficiently creeped out now?”

“Yuuri, calm down,” Viktor entreats.

Yuuri can’t help a sardonic little laugh. “’Calm down,’ he says. Right.”

“Yuuri,” Viktor presses, his tone serious and solemn. “If only I had known sooner.”

“If only you’d...Wait, what? What?” Yuuri balks.

“If that’s what you want from me, Yuuri, I’m willing... _more_ than willing -- _happy_ \-- to give that to you.”

“ _What?”_ Yuuri says again. Why can he only ever say one or two words on endless repeat at times like this?

“I... I also think about you, Yuuri. All the time.” And then Viktor _laughs._ At first it’s a chuckle, then a high-pitched giggle. As it builds momentum, it morphs into a loud, out of control roar. “Oh my god, Yuuri... this whole time. What have we been doing? What could we have _been_ doing?!”

“You want to be with me,” Yuuri says like he’s testing the veracity of the statement.

“Yes,” Viktor says emphatically. “Very much.”

Yuuri’s heart swells. _Viktor Nikiforov wants me. It’s... too good to be true, right?_

 _“_ When you get back, everything is going to be different,” Viktor is saying excitedly, all the exertion gone from his voice. He’s like a hyperactive preteen, full of energy and lacking in restraint. “I might not be able to leave you alone, actually!”

Yuuri frowns. It _is_ too good to be true because Viktor doesn’t get it still. Not completely. Yes, Yuuri wants to do _these_ sorts of things with him, but Yuuri wants _so much more_ , and he wants it _forever._ But Viktor isn’t talking about _more_ or _forever._ He’s talking about sex. He’s _Viktor Nikiforov._ He never stays with anyone for too long, and he’s never serious. He’s... fun.

While Yuuri knows Viktor loves him in his own way, that doesn’t change the fact that it’s not the same thing Yuuri feels. Being together... it might be a good time. They like each other. They get along. It’d be comfortable. But it wouldn’t be what Yuuri _really_ wanted.

 _But this is what he’s offering, and that is all you’re going to get,_ Yuuri concludes. _Take it or leave it._

He needs to think.

“Viktor, I have to go,” Yuuri says abruptly.

“What? But we just--”

“My phone is going to die,” he lies.

“Wait, Yuuri. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I just need to go. I’ll see you the day after tomorrow, okay?”

“Yuuri, I--”

“We’ll talk then. Bye.”

He presses the red button at the bottom of the screen and immediately powers down the phone before shoving it under the spare pillow.

* * *

 

For the next two mornings, Yuuri requests courtesy wake-up call rather than use his phone’s alarm so that he can keep his phone powered off until he arrives at the airport for the flight back to Japan. While waiting in line to check in, he scrolls through endless messages from _everyone_ he knows. He only reads a few.

 

 **[Viktor]** Good morning. I hope you slept well. Have fun with your exhibition program. Call me when you have a minute.

 

 **[Nishigori]** YUURI! Congrats, man! Let’s have a drink when you get back!

 

 **[Yuu-chan]** Yuuri-kun, you were amazing. The girls can’t stop talking about it in school... I got a note home from their teacher about it, even. I had to scold them for disrupting class. You worked so hard. FYI, Viktor is trying to get in touch with you?

 

 **[Phichit]** Well, I know you’re alive because I saw you sulking in the background of some pictures Seung-Gil uploaded to his Instagram but are you ok? You looked down. Viktor texted me (!!!!) and said he can’t get through to you. Anyway, WE ARE GOING TO THE GPF YUURI!!!!!!!!!! AHHHH!!!!

 

 **[Minako-sensei]** Your exhibition skate was good, but your landing on that triple axel looked... rough. Is your ankle ok? Don’t get careless now! I’m already booking my tickets to Barcelona, and I’ll be damned if you end up sitting it out because of some stupid injury.

 

 **[Viktor]** I want to talk to you, please. I’m not angry, just so you know. I just need to hear your voice. Please call me back.

 

 **[Mom]** Vicchan said you can have katsudon when you get back, so I’ll have it waiting for you. I’m so proud of you! Dad says hello!

 

 **[Viktor]** I know you must be busy. Send me a text, just let me know everything's all right.

 

 **[Yurio]** I THOUGHT I TOLD YOU TO REPLY TO VIKTOR? HE WAS QUIET FOR A WHILE BUT HE’S BLOWING UP MY PHONE AGAIN. DO SOMETHING. FIX THIS.

 

 **[Mari-neechan]** I know I’m supposed to come pick you up at the airport with the car, but we got a sudden booking for a party and Dad’s back is acting up again. I’m sending Viktor alone by taxi because he’s insisting on bringing Makkachin. By the way, have you talked to him lately? He seems weirder than usual.

 

 **[Viktor]** I want to see you. I miss you.

 

Yuuri checks his missed calls. Six. All from Viktor. As soon as he gets to his gate, he turns the phone back off.

During the flight, Yuuri has time to kill, which means time to think.

By the time he’s landed at Narita in Tokyo, he’s made up his mind. While he waits for his connecting flight to Fukuoka, slumped into a plastic chair at the gate, Yuuri pulls his phone from his carry-on and powers it up to send a brief text to his coach.

 

 **[Yuuri]** Just landed in Tokyo. I’m sorry. I have a lot I want to say.

 

Re-reading it once he’s sent it, he can’t help but feel a hint of panic. It reads cold. Yuuri quickly types a follow-up.

 

 **[Yuuri]** I can’t wait to see you.

* * *

 

Viktor laces his fingers through Yuuri’s as soon as they slump into the back seat of the cab that will take them to Hasetsu. Viktor is literally humming while they wait for the driver to finish loading Yuuri’s things into the trunk. Makkachin, ever-unaware about just how large he really is, stretches out over both of their laps and nestles his head against Yuuri’s thigh.

“Thanks for coming to get me,” Yuuri says. He gives Viktor’s hand a light squeeze, testing.

“Of course,” Viktor grins down at him. “I’m so happy you’re back.”

It’s warm. It’s sincere. It’s wonderful.

_This is enough. Even if it’s only for now._

He’d told himself to take or leave what Viktor was offering and on the flight from Russia, he’d decided to take it. Sure, it wasn’t _ideal_ , and maybe Viktor didn’t feel the exact same way. But it was close enough, and _avoiding_ it altogether wasn’t really making him happy either. So he’d take the time he was allowed, make some memories to sustain him later, let himself enjoy it... and then he’d cut Viktor loose on good terms, retire, and do his best to move on with his life.

His decision was reaffirmed soon as he fell into Viktor’s waiting arms. All the uncertainty of the past few months, all the confusion in China, all the hurt and silence in Moscow... it all seemed ridiculous.

“Please take care of me until I retire,” Yuuri had said.

“It’s almost like a marriage proposal,” Viktor had beamed before kissing his knuckles. “I wish you’d never retire, though.”

_But I will. So just let me have you for just this little while. I won’t ask for anything more._

“Yuuri, aren’t you tired?” Viktor whispers as the taxi pulls away from the curb.

“A little,” Yuuri admits.

Viktor leans against him lightly and gives his hand a tug to encourage Yuuri to do the same. “You can sleep. I’ll wake you when we get there.”

Yuuri lets himself slump to the side against Viktor’s shoulder, but he shakes his head. “If I sleep now, I won’t be able to go back to sleep once we get home. Let’s talk.”

“Of course,” Viktor says. “What would you like to talk about?”

“I’m still waiting for the lecture about my free skate,” Yuuri offers with a yawn.

* * *

 

Back in Hasetsu, Yuuri is immediately shuffled into the common room by his mother who has already set a table with his congratulatory bowl of pork, egg, and rice. Surrounded by his family who are entirely too excited to see him, he eats heartily. By the time the last grain is gone, he’s having a hard time keeping his eyes open.

Viktor leads him by the hand up the stairs and down the hall toward his room. Makkachin is on their heels, but out of habit takes a turn into the room he shares with Viktor as the men continue on. Outside the door marked PRIVATE, Viktor takes Yuuri’s other hand as well.

“Yuuri.”

“Hmm?” Yuuri says, blinking up heavily at the Russian.

“Can I sleep with you?”

“Wh-what?” It’s a request both sudden and bold enough to give Yuuri something of a second wind.

“We don’t have to do anything,” Viktor explains. “Only sleep. I just... I want to be close to you. Please?”

Yuuri chews his bottom lip, but he finds himself nodding anyway. Viktor’s eyes light up like candles, flaming blue, in the dimly lit hall.

“I’ll go change, then.” Viktor frees Yuuri’s hands and pads back toward his room. Yuuri hears him murmur something to the poodle.

In his own room, Yuuri makes quick work of stripping his clothes and pulling on a fresh pair of underwear, a tattered t-shirt he’s had since high school, and a pair of thick, black joggers. He removes his glasses and leaves them folded on his desk before slipping under his sheets and scooting until his back is against the wall to leave enough space on the narrow mattress for Viktor.

The Russian reappears moments later, dressed similarly and with a spare pillow tucked under one arm. He closes the door gingerly behind him then moves toward the bed, where he hesitates. Yuuri, cheeks pink, lifts the sheets as an invite. Viktor pulls the cord attached to the overhead light and slides in next to him before arranging his pillow under his head.

“Can I hold your hand again?” Yuuri asks when Viktor has settled in.

“Of course,” Viktor whispers back. He turns on his side and curls the fingers of his right hand over Yuuri’s. It feels like coming home all over again. “Go to sleep, now. You’ve earned it.”

“Okay,” Yuuri nods into his pillow. He lets his eyes slip shut.

“Good night, Yuuri.”

“Good night.”

“Yuuri?” Viktor says after a short pause.

“Mm?”

“Congratulations,” he whispers sweetly.

Yuuri curls his wrist, pressing the back of Viktor’s hand to his chest. “Thank you, Viktor.”

Despite Yuuri’s exhaustion, Viktor falls asleep first, his hand still tangled with the Japanese skater’s. Yuuri, on the other hand, is stuck replaying their reunion endlessly. Feet thudding against the flooring. Viktor’s eyes, simultaneously worried and forgiving.The satisfaction of getting the hug he’d longed for but couldn’t find in Yakov or any of the other skaters. His request, Viktor’s acceptance.

“It’s almost like a marriage proposal,” Yuuri quotes Viktor, a whisper into the dark as he studies the way the moonlight shimmers in Viktor’s hair and highlights the delicate, high arch of his cheek.

Almost like a marriage proposal. Almost on the same page. Almost failed to qualify for the Final. "Almost" means not quite.

 _It's a fitting word,_ Yuuri thinks, _for him and Viktor. They're almost, but not quite._

He closes his eyes and replays the airport scene again, but this time, his line of thought takes an unplanned turn.

A marriage proposal.

A wedding.

A first dance.

 _That’s it,_ Yuuri suddenly thinks.

He knows what he wants to do for his exhibition program for the Final.

_A first dance. And also, the last dance._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Next time**  
>  Viktor studies the features of Yuuri's face: the way the space between his eyebrows creases when he's being stubborn, the hard line of his jaw when he thinks he knows best but is too humble to say so, the particular shine of his brown eyes when he's being assertive. Viktor doesn't hate this Yuuri; quite the opposite, actually. This Yuuri is exciting. Alluring, even. But how is it possible for someone to be so extraordinary and so infuriating at the same time? 
> 
> "You aren't being fair," Viktor sighs as he drops down onto the couch beside Makkachin and runs an idle hand over the dog's back. "You can't decide that for me, Yuuri."  
> \--
> 
> First, I wanted to say THANK YOU for so many kind comments, especially the ones I got on the last chapter. It gives me a lot of motivation and based on the comments you've all left me so far, I think I'm accomplishing what I set out to do with this fic. 
> 
> This chapter...got away from me. I outlined all nine chapters before I started writing, so I pretty much know which scenes I want to include where, but I never expected this one to get so. They just had SO MUCH to talk about, so..?? 
> 
> I don't think the next one will be quite as long, but then again, who knows. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ This was pretty tough for me to write though. I actually started on it the day after I posted Ch. 4, but the ups and downs of this one really took it out of me so it was slow-going. Sorry if you felt jerked around. 
> 
> If it's any consolation, this chapter was a major tipping point, so I expect next chapter will be fluffier (though not entirely without its ARRRRGGGHH moments). 
> 
> [A quick doodle of Yurio in the cafe I did while I drafted this chapter.](https://hanarezu-ni.tumblr.com/post/161510194839/yurio-a-quick-doodle-i-did-while-drafting-ch-5) (He'll be making much more substantial appearances later.)
> 
> Inspiration/a recipe for [ blinchiki. ](http://www.taste.com.au/recipes/blinchiki-russian-crepes-sweet-ricotta/cce9d31f-0317-4558-9b95-04c6077b4fae)
> 
> I listen to a lot of mood music while I write, and this chapter saw me replaying [Take Shelter](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z0atZQSUE80) and [Desire](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6nJCF01b510) (both by years & years) endlessly. 
> 
> Pluggy McPluggerson: [Find me on tumblr for YOI goodness.](https://hanarezu-ni.tumblr.com/)


	6. Misbehave (Viktor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri sighs lightly, a sound Viktor desperately wants to chalk up to him being tired or to the weariness that comes after the effects of alcohol fade. But something about it reeks of frustration or disappointment. He tries to make out Yuuri’s expression, but his face is obscured by dark shadows. Still, it makes him feel uneasy. He’s desperate to get a grasp on Yuuri’s mood, so Viktor reaches out and places a light hand on Yuuri’s hip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An alternate (but accurate) summary for this chapter: Viktor is in love! Fluff! Fluff! More fluff! WHERE DID THIS SMUT COME FROM?! BUT AT LEAST EVERYTHING IS GOING WELL! Oh, nevermind.

Sparse but long eyelashes, especially the lower ones. A small scar just under the left nostril, possibly from a childhood bout of chickenpox. A cowlick behind the right ear. A small, dark mole at the base of the neck, usually hidden by a shirt collar. Sleeps with a closed mouth and one hand shoved under the pillow.

They’re all details not many would know about Katsuki Yuuri because not many people get to share a bed with him. But Viktor has. ( _More than once,_ he reminds himself.) And this time, he’s determined to commit these details to memory, which is why he’s been analyzing the Japanese skater’s sleeping face for the past two hours at only a handful of centimeters away.

When he’d woken up to Yuuri’s face nearly nose to nose with his own, breathing lightly, he’d vowed to never leave this bed. Yuuri was too ethereal in the early morning light, and Viktor was too enraptured to even consider the idea. But now his back is starting to ache and his stomach is starting to rumble, so he’s having to reassess his vow.

Slowly, he lifts the blankets and sits up before stealthily sliding to the edge of the mattress.

“Mm... V’kt’r?” Yuuri stirs; his eyes slit open.

_Not stealthy enough._

“Sorry,” Viktor says softly, still half-seated on the edge of the bed. “Go back to sleep.”

“Wh’time issit?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Viktor smiles. “Today is an off day. Coach’s orders. Sleep as long as you like.”

Yuuri’s eyes flutter shut again; he makes something a noise that sounds like acknowledgment as he brings the blankets up around his shoulders and nestles down into his cocoon. Viktor reaches out to smooth down the cowlick behind his ear. It stands back up immediately. Viktor has never felt so blessed in his life.

He tiptoes away and takes great care not to let the door creak too loudly when he opens and closes it, or to let his footsteps fall too heavily as he makes his way back to his room where Makkachin is curled into a ball in the center of Viktor’s bed.

“Do you need to go out?” he asks the dog as he shimmies out of his pajamas and pulls on a thick cable knit sweater and worn pair of jeans. Makkachin perks up at “out.

“Let’s go, then.

The poodle bounds off the bed and is halfway down the hall before Viktor can grab his coat and unplug his phone from its charger. He exchanges greetings with Yuuri’s family as he chases the poodle to the front entrance -- “No, I’ll have breakfast when we get back, thank you”, “Yes, he’s still sleeping”, “Ah! Makkachin, wait!” -- and then they’re off for a slow stroll around the neighborhood where Viktor waves and calls good mornings to everyone he passes.

“You’re in a good mood,” one of the neighbors says.

“I’m usually in a good mood, aren’t I?” Viktor pouts in stilted Japanese.

“But this morning is different,” the old woman titters as she rubs Makkachin behind the ears.

Maybe it’s true. Ever since he woke up, everything has seemed a little brighter, a little crisper, a little warmer even in the winter air. And when he sits down in a small public park to call Chris while Makkachin sniffs around, he tells his Swiss friend so the moment he answers the call.

“Viktor, I was just about to go to bed,” Chris yawns.

“But Chris,” Viktor sighs into the phone, “I’m _in love._ ”

“Obviously,” Chris replies flatly.

“I had to tell someone.”

“Usually, you’d tell the person you’re in love with, wouldn’t you?”

“He’s still sleeping,” Viktor says.

“Did you wear him out last night?” Chris teases.

“No!” Viktor tuts into the phone, “Honestly. Not everyone is _you,_ you know _._ We haven’t done that yet.”

_Not... exactly, anyway._

“Poor Viktor,” Chris coos.

“There’s no rush,” Viktor retorts. “We have all the time in the world.”

“Well, you may have all the time in the world, but I only have five hours until I have to get up for morning practice,” Chris says. “So I’ll be hanging up now.”

“You’re surprisingly short-winded when there’s minimal drama,” Viktor notes with a click of his tongue.

Chris laughs. “That might be true. Anyway, you be sure to... enjoy... all your newfound time. I’ll be waiting for details.”

“What makes you think I’d tell you anything?” Viktor huffs.

“Stingy. After all I’ve done for you.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“Good.”

* * *

 

Yuuri is still sleeping when Viktor returns to the onsen an hour later. In fact, he doesn’t wake up until nearly 4:00 pm. Viktor is sitting against a wall in the TV room, huddled next to a space heater with his latest novel, when Yuuri finally stumbles into the quiet room, bleary-eyed and sluggish.

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Viktor grins.

“S’cold. Where is everyone?” Yuuri mutters. He slips his hand under his shirt to scratch his stomach.

(Viktor catches a glimpse of skin pulled tautly over the knob of his hipbone. He turns his eyes down when his heart pounds in his chest hard enough to rattle a rib.)

“Your dad is resting, I think. Mari left to run errands, and your mother... well, Makkachin is gone, so I assume your mother is in the kitchen prepping for the evening rush. Should I go get your lunch? She left a portion for you.”

Yuuri shakes his head and slumps down next to Viktor before leaning in to rest his head on the Russian’s shoulder. “Warm,” he yawns.

Viktor marks his place in his book and sets it aside at a safe distance from the heater. He leans his cheek into Yuuri’s hair. The Japanese’s man’s sudden easiness with this kind of touch is unexpected, but it thrills him. Then again, Yuuri has always been full of surprises, so maybe Viktor _should_ have expected it. In any case, he’s smiling like an idiot and is privately grateful that Yuuri can’t see it from this angle.

_All of that previous hesitance was just nerves, I guess._

“Did you sleep well?” he asks, curling his fingers between Yuuri’s.

“Actually, I feel like I could still sleep,” Yuuri mutters.

“You should if you want to,” Viktor says. “You’ve had an eventful couple of days. You’re probably a bit sleep-deprived.”

“I feel bad, though. Especially since we… well...I just kind of thought I’d get to spend the day with you,” Yuuri complains.

Viktor lifts his head when Yuuri tilts his head up to meet his gaze.

Viktor blinks a few times, then awkwardly smiles. “We spend every day together, Yuuri.”

“I meant... you know. A...a date, or something.”

_Kill me now. I will die happy._

_“_ You’re blushing,” Yuuri observes.

“A date,” Viktor swallows and turns his face slightly to hide the deepening scarlet on his cheeks.

Yuuri nods. “If... if that’s okay.”

_Really. Kill me now._

“ _Yuuri,”_ Viktor sighs happily. He untangles their fingers so he can wrap both arms around the younger man’s shoulders and pull him into a tight embrace. “You’re so bold! Of _course_ it’s okay! Let’s go!”

Yuuri laughs, his cheek pressed to the top of Viktor’s shoulder. He lightly grips the arm Viktor has snaked across his chest. “We can’t _now._ It’s too late. I slept too long, and it’ll start getting dark soon.”

“Tomorrow, then!”

“Tomorrow we have practice, right?”

Viktor pushes his bottom lip out. “So serious all of the time.”

“A coach would usually be happy to have a serious student,” Yuuri chides gently. “ _You’re_ the one who should be reminding _me_ that we have practice.”

“Your coach is delighted at your focus,” Viktor says, “but your coach also wants to go on a date.”

Yuuri sniffs, then rubs the space under his nose with the back of his index finger. “Maybe if it’s just a half day....” he mumbles to himself.

“Yes! A half day! Tomorrow after morning rehearsal! You’re a genius!” Viktor agrees, excitedly shaking the younger man encircled in his arms back and forth.

“Okay, okay,” Yuuri chuckles. “What should we do, though? You’ve been here for a while now. You’ve probably done all of the usual stuff already.”

Viktor strokes his chin and looks up to contemplate. While he’s pondering his choices, Yuuri suddenly stands, eliciting a discontented whine from Viktor at the sudden loss of contact.

“On second thought, I _am_ hungry,” Yuuri says. “I’ll go get my leftovers. Think about what you want to do tomorrow.”

With both hands on the small of his back, Yuuri arches backward to stretch his back (and Viktor gets a peek of skin again), then walks off in the direction of the kitchen. Viktor slumps back against the wall and feels a ridiculously wide, dopey smile slide over his lips. He pulls the neck of his sweater up and over his nose to hide his face. Although he’s alone, he somehow wants to keep this feeling private.

 _“Oh my god,”_ Viktor whispers to himself.

Lowering his sweater collar, Viktor tips his head back against the wall and closes his eyes.

_Yuuri..._

Yuuri, who was Viktor’s fan. Yuuri, who skates like music courses through his body instead of blood. Yuuri, who is anxious and good and rash and kind. Yuuri, who always manages to confound and astonish Viktor. _That_ Yuuri is touching him so naturally. _That_ Yuuri is taking him on a date. _That_ Yuuri is _his_ from now on.

_From now on,_

Viktor sharply sucks in air through his nose at the thought. He has spent most of his life training, perfecting his craft, winning medals, being the media darling everyone expects. But all that time, he’d been lonely. He’d resigned himself to the idea that being a champion required a certain amount of sacrifice, even if he craved some meaningful connection. There was no time for that sort of thing, and by the time he retired, it would be too late. No one would have any use for him if he wasn’t skating. Without skating, what was he? ( If he was honest with himself, Viktor didn’t know the answer. He’d spent so long as a living legend that he’d sort of forgotten who he was under the weight of his medals.)

So he’d had a couple of flings to satisfy baser urges and have a little fun. Nothing heavy, nothing complicated. No one had seemed interested in getting past his persona anyway. And when those trysts ended (and they always ended just as easily as they’d started), he’d done his best to ignore the hollow feeling in his chest. But still, deep down in the part of himself he tried desperately to deny, during the coldest winters and the darkest nights, he had never stopped yearning for someone to find him... the _real_ him.

 _But that’s in the past now,_ he thinks.

That’s when inspiration strikes.

When Yuuri returns with a tray, balanced carefully with steamed pumpkin, a seaweed salad with a tart miso-based dressing, a small bowl of rice, and a bit of grilled chicken with tartar sauce, Viktor crawls toward the table Yuuri settles in front of and situates himself on the other side.

“I thought about it,” he says just as soon as Yuuri has finished with the pre-meal thanks.

Yuuri pops a chunk of pumpkin into his mouth and widens his eyes in a silent invitation to continue.

“I want to know about your life before you started competing,” Viktor says, leaning his chin into the heel of his hand. “Take me to the places you used to go. Childhood haunts.”

Yuuri casts his eyes downward while he chews. Once he swallows, he looks back up. “It wouldn’t be anywhere very interesting,” he warns.

“I think it’ll be _very_ interesting.”

Yuuri licks a smear of pumpkin from his upper lip and then smiles. “Okay. I can think of a few places, I think. We’ll go around lunchtime?”

“Perfect,” Viktor says.

Yuuri’s cheeks are dusted in pink; he dips his head down and shovels rice from his bowl to his mouth. Viktor regards him for a while with a curious tilt of the head, but Yuuri has gone quiet and Viktor recognizes that inward retreat.

 _He’s probably already planning everything down to the second,_ Viktor chuckles silently.

“I think I’ll go have a soak before dinner,” he says after some time. “Or should I wait so you can join me?”

Yuuri nearly chokes on a piece of chicken. Once he clears it from his throat with three hard pounds to the chest, he shakes his head rapidly.

“Too bad,” Viktor pouts as he pushes himself to his feet. He gives Yuuri a brief wave over his shoulder as he heads out into the hall.

* * *

 

“I don’t know why you kicked me out of bed last night,” Viktor pouts as they push open the first set of doors to Ice Castle.

“It’s not kicking you out if I never invited you in. Or were you planning on sleeping in my room every night from now on?” Yuuri asks, sarcasm peppering his tone.

Viktor shrugs. “Or you could sleep in mine.”

Yuuri stops in his tracks just as they pass through the second set of doors. Viktor smirks at his wide eyes and red face and turns toward the front desk where Yuuri’s childhood friend is downing a large thermos of coffee while shuffling papers.

“Good morning!” he calls jovially.

“Ah, good morning! Oh, Yuuri-kun, you’re back!” Yuuko smiles.

“Yeah,” Yuuri says, returning her smile. “I’m home.”

“And you made it to the Final!” Yuuko continues to gush. “We’re all so excited! Ah, of course you can book as much time as you need to prepare.” She pulls out the notebook she uses to schedule private practices and flips through the pages. “I’m sure we could move some people around to--”

“Thank you, Yuuko,” Viktor says gently. “But for now, we’ll just be using the mornings as usual. Besides, Yuuri and I have a _date_ later today.”

“Viktor!” Yuuri protests.

“What? We do, don’t we? Or are you going to stand me up?” He blinks back at the Japanese skater, feigning hurt.

“Well, yeah. I mean, no, I’m not going to stand you up. But--”

“Well, then,” Viktor interrupts, slinging an arm over Yuuri’s shoulders, “we’d better get to work. The sooner we start, the sooner we finish.”

Yuuko is snickering under her breath. Viktor waves a hand to her and shuffles his student off toward the locker rooms.

Whenever Viktor stands on the ice, a switch gets flipped. As a competitor, it’s the switch that sends his emotions into overdrive. Reporters and interviewers always ask him what the secret to his success is. Mostly, he gives them the usual answers: endless practice, rigorous training, his dedication to learning the physics of quad jumps. Those are all throwaways, though. Of course those things contribute to his position as maybe the greatest skater in the sport at the moment, but it’s not his secret weapon. You _never_ give away your secret weapon.

What makes Viktor a winner is that he _feels_ everything. He has a tendency to create stories for his programs, but when he’s actually on the ice and the music starts, he loses the images. Instead, he skates on the pure _emotion_ of the story as it progresses. When the piano hammers out dark, forceful notes, he feels the fear in his chest and speeds up. When violin strings bend, he feels grief so heavy that tears well up on his lashes as he dips his head. When trumpets blare, he feels joy so great that jumping as high as he can seems like the only logical move.

Stepping onto the ice as a _coach,_ though. That’s a different switch. Viktor has been called countless things by just as many people. He’s flighty, naive, charming, fun, a bit stubborn. But no one has ever accused Viktor of being _serious._ Yet, whenever Yuuri stands at attention before him, ready to begin a practice session, serious is all Viktor wants to be. Yuuri deserves earnest seriousness because Yuuri is earnestly serious about everything he does.

 _And Yuuri could easily surpass me,_ Viktor thinks, _if he wants it bad enough._

So despite his excitement for the afternoon, and despite his preoccupation with the cowlick that he now notices _all the time_ , and despite how touch-deprived he feels because Yuuri hadn’t let him sleep in the same bed last night, Viktor flips his switch.

“During your free program at Rostelecom,” Viktor says as they stand in the center of the rink after stretches and warmup drills, “your jumps were sloppy. Especially in the first half.”

“I had things on my mind,” Yuuri replies, fidgeting with an errant string on his left glove.

“Skaters don’t get the chance to justify their shortcomings or mental state to the judges,” Viktor says, crossing his arms. “You know that better than anyone.”

Yuuri chews his lip and nods.

“Even if your mind had been clear, your take-offs weren’t always solid. You know you can’t expect to land a jump cleanly if you didn’t start it that way. Successful jumps require attention to the whole process, not just the follow-through.”

“I take it today is going to be spent practicing a bunch of jumps, then,” Yuuri sighs.

“ _So_ many jumps,” Viktor smirks. “Let’s put that stamina of yours to the test.”

* * *

 

Viktor leans against the outer wall that surrounds the Katsuki family’s property; his head is tilted down to the toe of his leather shoe, which is tapping nervously.

“Sorry,” Yuuri huffs as he passes through the gate. “I had to tell Mom we didn’t need lunch.”

Viktor pushes off from the wall and beats his hands against the back of his long, brown coat to bat away any errant dirt.

“No problem. Are you ready?” he asks. He turns his gaze to Yuuri and inspects the man standing before them.

Yuuri is forever in training clothes or sweats. On the rare days they aren’t shuffling between the rink and ballet studio and home, Yuuri tends to wear tired old things he’s had forever. Viktor likes that just fine, though. Finds it charming, even. Viktor lives for fashion, but Yuuri doesn’t and actually, his disinterest in clothing is _just_ like him. It’d be hard to imagine a Yuuri who squealed over designer jeans or waxed philosophical about the merits of single-breasted versus double-breasted blazers. (Though, oddly enough, Yuuri _does_ seem to get excited about skating costumes. Especially Viktor’s old ones.)

But today, Yuuri is wearing a deep blue varsity-style jacket layered over a thinner black zip-up with a hood, a newer pair of dark jeans, and a pair of red, loosely-laced high-top All Stars that are folded over at the ankle.

 _He dressed up for our date,_ Viktor thinks giddily. He puts a gloved hand over his mouth to hide the stupid grin that seems to be his default ever since Yuuri returned from Russia.

Yuuri hoists an old leather rucksack -- leftover from his father’s younger days, he tells an admiring Viktor later -- over his right shoulder and nods. “Ready.”

“Where to?” Viktor says, looping an arm through Yuuri’s.

Yuuri clears his throat. “First, a convenience store.”

Yuuri silently leads Viktor down narrow back streets and pathways, set away from the main streets. When Viktor complains that they’re supposed to be going on a tour of Yuuri’s past and they’ve been to _countless_ convenience stores, Yuuri hushes him.

“This is the path I used to take to go to school. And that,” he says, pointing to a small storefront on the other side of a four-way intersection, “used to be a big chain store, but now it’s the last one of its kind in this area, and they sell my _favorite_ food.”

“I thought katsudon was your favorite,” Viktor says curiously.

“It’s my favorite thing, but only if it’s my family’s recipe,” Yuuri corrects. “This is more like my favorite after-school snack.”

They cross the road and slip into the shop. It’s like most convenience stores Viktor’s been to -- clean, organized aisles lined with snacks, cup ramen, and candy. Drink coolers built into the back wall are stocked with various beverages. A magazine rack, an ATM and copy machine, a small ice cream freezer. But Yuuri bypasses all of it, walking right up to the register to speak to the middle-aged man behind the counter. He points to a display case of warm ( _And mostly fried,_ Viktor notes) foods as he talks.

While the man opens the case, Yuuri turns to Viktor and asks him to pick out something to drink.

“For me, too.”

“What do you want?” Viktor asks.

“Surprise me,” Yuuri smiles.

Viktor meanders to the back wall and stands before the rows of soft drinks and various teas. He chooses water for himself, picking the bottle with the label he recognizes from a vending machine back at the onsen. Choosing for Yuuri is harder. Yuuri almost never buys drinks outside. Instead, he prefers to save money and bring tea from home.

“Viktor,” Yuuri calls from the front. “Hurry up!”

Blindly, he grabs a bottle of a darker tea wrapped in an orange plastic label and walks it back up to the counter.

“Barley,” Yuuri says softly, turning the bottle over in his hands before passing it to the store employee. His eyes are unfocused and his mouth dips downward for an instant.

“No good?” Viktor asks.

“Kind of perfect, actually,” Yuuri laughs. “It’s what I probably would have chosen for myself.”

Once Yuuri pays and they step outside, he moves to the right of the door and squats down in front of the large pane windows that look into the magazine corner. The plastic bag rustles as he removes one item, still steaming and wrapped in a waxy paper.

“For you,” he says, stretching his arm to offer it to Viktor.

“We’re going to eat it here?” Viktor asks, quirking one eyebrow up. He takes care to slip off his leather gloves and pocket them before taking Yuuri’s offering. “Aren’t your legs tired after this morning?”

“I want you to have the whole experience,” Yuuri chuckles as he pulls an identical item from the bag. “You have to squat in front of the store to eat these. It’s the rule.”

Viktor scrunches his nose a little. _But my coat...,_ he complains internally.

Still, he squats down next to Yuuri and carefully tucks his jacket between his thighs and calves to avoid having it drag on the pavement.

“It’s a potato dumpling with cheese inside,” Yuuri explains as he pulls back the paper around his own. “I used to buy these all the time on the way home, especially when it was cold like this.”

“As your coach, I can’t say I approve of this,” Viktor says. Still, as he unwraps his dumpling, the smell hits him and his mouth waters.

“Right now, you’re not my coach,” Yuuri points out. “You’re my...”

Viktor’s heart thumps hard enough that it knocks his breathing off kilter. He risks a sidelong glance in Yuuri’s direction. The younger man is staring down at his purchase, brows furrowed together.

“Your what?” Viktor urges.

“...my.... date,” he declares like it’s a label he’s finally settled on.

 _His **date**? _ A vague disappointment washes over Viktor, just for a moment. _It’s not wrong, but..._

But it’s Yuuri, and they’re still new to this, so instead of pushing it, he stuffs the feeling down and takes a big bite from the dumpling. The still-hot cheese hits his tongue and he yelps in surprise.

“Careful!” Yuuri laughs. “You have to let it cool a little first.”

He pulls Viktor’s water from the bag and unscrews the cap before handing it over. Viktor chases the bite with mouthful after mouthful until his tongue isn't prickling with heat. “You could have warned me first.”

“Sorry. But it’s good, right?” Yuuri says before taking a careful bite of his own.

It _is,_ despite the pain. It’s savory, and sticky, and gooey, and all the things that make high-calorie foods so tasty. Viktor nods and takes a smaller, more tentative bite.

“You said you ate these on the way home,” Viktor says. “But what about skating practice? Didn’t you go to lessons after school?”

Yuuri hums. “A few days a week, yeah. But I’ve told you before, right? I tend to eat a lot right before competitions. And back then, I wasn’t quite to the level of entering anything. I was still practicing swizzles, so it didn’t really matter too much what I ate.”

Viktor grins at the picture that brews in his head: Yuuri, stomach round and heavy from potato dumplings, bringing his toes inward and pushing them back out to shakily make his way from one end of the rink to the other.

_Cute._

They finish and wipe their sticky fingers with wet towelettes the cashier had provided, and Yuuri sorts the trash into the various receptacles stationed to the left of the store’s double doors -- an art Viktor still hasn’t quite managed to figure out.

“Shall we get going?” Yuuri asks, extending a hand which Viktor takes eagerly.

“Lead on.”

Yuuri has plenty of stops planned. They make their way to his elementary school, where Yuuri points out the window of his first-grade classroom and the gymnasium where he used to sometimes practice dance after school on wet days while he waited for the rain to peter out. Yuuri’s junior high is just a few minutes’ walk from there, but Yuuri is curiously silent about those three years.

“I started practicing a lot more, and then I started entering regional events,” he says thoughtfully as they listen to the sounds of children playing and yelling drift from the old concrete building.

He doesn’t have to say anything more. Viktor gets it. When you make the choice to chase a dream like the one they share, there’s little room for much else. The price for greatness is hefty, after all, and few people understand its weight. Viktor thinks back to his early teenage years and also can’t recall much else outside of practicing, exhaustion, and an endless cycle of contests meant to push him up the ranks.

“How about high school?” Viktor asks, giving Yuuri’s hand a brief squeeze.

“My high school is on the other side of town,” he replies. “But I guess it was fun? When I was actually there, anyway. I was already competing in junior-level events by then, so I was a little famous, I guess? I was absent a lot so I could travel. My classmates would ask me questions or ask to take pictures with me, but I still didn’t have many good friends. Aside from Yuu-chan and Nishigori, I mean.”

“Are we going there next?”

“To my high school? No,” Yuuri smiles as he hoists his bag to redistribute the weight on his back. “We’re going to the shopping district.”

They take a municipal bus to the covered arcade, where old shops that are generally void of customers line the avenues. Viktor loves the feel of this place, though he often wonders how any of these stores manage to stay in business with so few people wandering the area. Farmer’s stands sell home-grown produce, specialized boutiques sell the leopard and tiger print shirts that only a special brand of Japanese old ladies (and Yurio) love, and there are dingy, poorly kept restaurants with concrete floors and simple wooden stools. Yuuri peppers their stroll with tidbits and reminiscent stories about the shops, or the people who run them, or something funny Nishigori once said while they stood in a particular spot.

Eventually, Yuuri takes Viktor down a narrow alley between two buildings until they are standing before a dirty, plastic signboard with an arrow that points down a short flight of stairs sunken into the ground. At the bottom is a European-style door with a bell, and beyond that, a cramped space filled wall-to-wall with old vinyl records. Jazz tunes dominate the stale air as they make their way inside.

When the old man behind a small counter sees them, he raises a hand in greeting and exchanges a few pleasantries with Yuuri, who asks a question. The man points to the back.

“Come on,” Yuuri says, taking Viktor’s hand again.

They snake their way through the impossibly narrow aisles. Yuuri stops in one section long enough to thumb through a few dusty sleeves and selects one before continuing on. On the back wall, there is another door, solid and heavy with only a thin rectangular window near the top. Yuuri holds it open for Viktor, who moves inside to find an even smaller room with two chairs, a table, and an impeccably kept record player.

“The owner is an old classmate of my dad’s, and he lets regulars use this place like a kind of music library,” Yuuri says once he shuts the door behind him. The sounds of trombones and the upright bass are immediately stifled. “I used to come here sometimes to find new music and dream up programs.”

“How charming,” Viktor sighs as he lowers himself onto one of the two metal chairs. The brief respite is a blessing; leather shoes were not a smart choice. “But why records? We aren’t so old that you couldn’t have found music online or borrowed CDs.”

“That’s true,” Yuuri says as he tenderly pulls a record from its sleeve and places it on the spindle, “But my dad always liked records, and I like the way they sound. Or maybe, I like the way they make me feel like I’m getting lost in the music.”

When the disk starts to spin, Yuuri carefully drops the needle, then sits back in the empty chair as the sounds of strings fill the air, soft and yearning.

“[Rachmaninov](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9v1HW8Fgt_s),” Yuuri says, tilting his head back with half-lidded eyes. He slips his bag off his shoulders and lets it slide to the floor beside him.

“You know your Russian composers,” Viktor notes.

“I guess I like Russians,” Yuuri says

_Wow!_

“Are you _flirting_ with me?” Viktor reaches for Yuuri’s hand and curls his fingers around the Japanese man’s pinky and ring finger.

Yuuri sits up straight in his chair now, his eyes a little wide with realization. And he is lovely, here in this cramped, little cell, in his best attempt at an outfit, surrounded by antiquity and the sounds of stringed instruments pining away.

Viktor finds that he is pining away too, and he feels himself start to lean forward in his chair.

_Stop. You have to do it right this time around. Otherwise, it’ll be just like China, and who knows if you’ll be able to recover again if you mess this up._

“Yuuri,” Viktor says. It’s so soft on his tongue that he’s not sure if his voice has carried over the sweet sound of violins. But Yuuri squares his shoulders and Viktor takes it as his cue to continue. “Can I kiss you?”

“K-kiss me?”

“Yes. I’d like to.”

Yuuri pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and searches Viktor’s face for a long moment. And then he nods. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Viktor whispers as he moves in, placing his free hand on Yuuri’s far shoulder to bring him in closer.

Viktor’s heart is in his throat when he presses into Yuuri’s lips, half-expecting the Japanese man to freeze up just as he has always done. Or maybe he’ll keep it brief and chaste, like a child kissing a parent. Either way, despite permission being granted, Viktor tries not to get his hopes up.

But it’s nothing like China. Or Russia, for that matter. This time, Yuuri absolutely _melts_ into him. He brings a hand up to the side of Viktor’s neck and gently brushes his thumb along his earlobe as he tilts his head and kisses the Russian back fully. It sends a shiver down Viktor’s spine that he doesn’t have any hope of suppressing. It’s not a desperate kiss like the ones Viktor has imagined countless times. It’s exploratory and patient and questioning, and it’s more than Viktor can handle. He’s lightheaded and dazed and he needs a moment, so he pulls back.

Yuuri has other plans, apparently. He stays his hand and pulls Viktor back in, this times with lips gently parted.

 _Always surprising me,_ Viktor muses to himself as he sinks into Yuuri a second time.

When Yuuri pulls back, he touches his forehead to Viktor’s. Viktor exhales heavily, eyes closed.

“Sorry,” Yuuri says, voice low. “Too much?”

“Just right,” Viktor breathes.

They pull apart, each leaning back into his own chair, and remain silent for the duration of the record’s playtime. Yuuri’s face is screwed into a shy, funny little half-smile. Viktor never lets go of Yuuri’s fingers.

* * *

 

After they thank the owner of the basement shop for letting them use the back room, Viktor follows Yuuri to the end of the arcade where it opens out onto a main boulevard that runs parallel to the river that dissects the city. They stop at corner stall where an older woman is selling skewers stacked with chunks of radish, fish cakes, and other winter foods that have been boiling in an oily, brown broth.

“Have you had oden before,” Yuuri asks as he hands a skewer to Viktor.

Viktor inspects the bits on his skewer. The smell is thick and greasy. It overpower’s Viktor’s sense of smell. “No,” he answers, shaking his head.

“It hits the spot during the winter,” Yuuri says as he bites into a large piece of softened carrot.

Viktor eats half of his and doesn’t much care for it. Yuuri offers to finish it. “You’re eating so poorly today, Yuuri,” the coach in him complains.

“It has vegetables!” Yuuri protests, grease shining on his lips.

“Radishes hardly count as a vegetable.”

“I’ll get back on track tomorrow,” Yuuri promises as he checks his watch. “Oh! We’d better hurry. It’s almost time.”

“Time for what?”

“Our last stop.”

Yuuri inhales the final pieces and tosses the sticks into a trash can right outside the stall. He tugs on Viktor’s hand and leads him across the street and down to the river walk where they continue on as the sky dims from dark blue to black rapidly. After a few blocks, they stop suddenly.

“Is this it?” Viktor says, looking around.

It’s the same as always: a railing to left, evenly spaced trees to the right. There are benches every few feet, but otherwise, it’s unremarkable, especially in the dark.

“Just wait,” Yuuri hushes him, bringing his watch close to his face to check the time again. “Here we go. Five, four, three...”

Viktor glances at Yuuri.

“Two.”

Viktor looks down the path.

“One.”

One by one, arches of lights twinkle to life in a rainbow of colors, casting sparkling reflections onto the water and dousing the walkway in varied hues that gradually shift from one spectrum to another. From where they stand, it seems like there must be a hundred of arches or more; Viktor can’t see where they end.

“Amazing” he exclaims.

“Right?” Yuuri laughs. “It’s Hasetsu’s attempt at a grand illumination for Christmas. It’s been a while since I’ve seen it myself, but I always used to love to come see the lights as a kid. They go from here all the way to the bridge.”

“It’s so pretty,” Viktor says wistfully.

His body moves forward on its own like it’s floating just over the ground while it passes under arch after arch. His chin is tilted up to let his face bask in the light. Yuuri follows behind with an amused smile and both hands stuffed into his jacket pockets until they reach a spot nearly halfway to the end.

“Viktor, wait,” Yuuri calls. He moves off the path and sits on the edge of a bench.

Viktor backtracks and sits on the other end. He watches as Yuuri puts his leather bag between them. With fingers a bit stiff from the cold, he undoes the buckles and flips the top open to remove two tall, thin glass jars with pull tabs on the top.

“Rice wine,” Yuuri says bashfully as he holds one out to Viktor. “I thought we could have a drink while we enjoyed the lights. I sort of... stole these from my dad. They’re local-made, not like those cheap ones you find in convenience stores.”

Viktor smiles and takes the jar with both hands. “Thank you, Yuuri,” he says just before moving the bag to his other side so that he can slide closer to its owner.

“You’re welcome” Yuuri replies with a faint flush.

They sit back on the bench and pull the tops from their jars. Viktor finishes his first, savoring the warm burn that pours down his throat and spreads into his chest. Yuuri is more careful, taking small sips here and there while he points out buildings on the other side of the water.

After Yuuri finishes his drink, Viktor kisses him again, a quick, warm peck on the lips that still tastes vaguely of oden (which Viktor can’t help but comment on).

Yuuri _giggles_. Viktor falls for him all over again.

* * *

 

For the rest of their walk by the river (and periodic visits to pop-up food stalls along the way, where Viktor gives up trying to control Yuuri’s diet for today), it seems that Yuuri hits that sweet spot between sober and drunk. He’s a little rosy in the cheeks and glassy-eyed, but he’s smiling and laughing and chattering nonstop. It feels familiar.The moment they reach the onsen, however, Viktor witnesses his buzz turn from energy to exhaustion. And it’s no wonder; Viktor worked him to the bone in the morning, and they spent the rest of the day trekking all over town.

Makkachin jumps as their heels as they climb the stairs and make their way down the hall toward their rooms. Yuuri is mumbling about falling into bed, but it takes Viktor by surprise when, instead of going to his door at the end of the hallway, Yuuri slides Viktor’s door open, yanks the cord on the overhead light, removes and sets aside his glasses, and then immediately flings himself face-first onto _Viktor’s_ bed.

“Maybe I should get a bigger bed for my room,” he mutters, nuzzling into the sheets. “Or maybe I’ll just take this one in the future. It’s so comfy.”

Viktor follows Yuuri into the room, eyebrow cocked.

_... **take** it?_

Makkachin interrupts Viktor’s train of thought as he runs past the man, nearly knocking his owner over in the process. He makes for the couch and curls up in a ball at one end with a contented gruff.

“Your room would be all bed if you did that,” Viktor says as he shrugs out of his jacket and arranges it on a hanger that’s hooked to the wall.

“A room that is only a bed,” Yuuri says dreamily. “That sounds _so_ nice.”

Viktor sits on the edge of the bed next to Yuuri to pull off his socks. “You’re tired, huh? I guess even _your_ stamina has its limits.”

Yuuri turns his head to the side and shoots Viktor a sharp glare.

“Teasing,” the Russian grins. “I guess I should apologize. I’m the one who made you overexert yourself today.”

“You can make it up to me by giving me your bed,” Yuuri says.

“You’re welcome to it,” Viktor says. “Though I should warn you that I’m included. It’s a packaged deal.”

He’s being facetious, of course. Yuuri is just being bratty, and Viktor is indulging him. But at the end of the night, he knows Yuuri will go back to his own room alone, just as he’d done the previous night.

Yuuri rolls over onto his back and runs his eyes over Viktor’s face. His cheeks are pink again, like they’d been earlier in the evening at illumination, but his features are hard and serious. “That’s fine,” he replies.

_Oh?_

Memories of Sochi flash through Viktor’s head as if he were scrolling through photos in his phone’s gallery. Yuuri unbuttoning his dress shirt with one hand while barely managing to keep a champagne flute upright in the other. Yuuri grabbing Viktor’s hand and pulling him to an open space. Yuuri wrapping himself around Viktor and grinning up at him with wet eyes.

 _Alcohol makes him daring,_ Viktor reminds himself, though he’s aware that the alcohol must have mostly worn off by now, and Yuuri was never anywhere near Sochi-level drunk at any point during the night.

_He’s just bluffing._

The smaller man sits up and sets to work removing his jacket and zip-up, which is unceremoniously tossed onto the couch. The zip-up falls over the poodle, who huffs in protest but otherwise doesn’t even bother to lift his head.

_Or not?_

Yuuri flops back on the bed and arches his back to shimmy out of his pants. He kicks them off onto the floor before using his toes to push his socks down and off his feet. Viktor is frozen, eyes wide and mouth hanging open.

“ _What?”_ Yuuri says petulantly when he’s down to his undershirt and boxers. “You said I could have the bed. ” And then, after he scrambles up the mattress and pulls back the covers to wiggle his way under, he asks, “Are you getting in or not?”

_Absolutely, I am._

In a demonstration of efficiency in its purest form, Viktor stands and strips down to his boxers in as few movements as possible. He leaves his clothes in a pile on the end of the couch opposite where Makkachin is already dozing and turns off the light as he slips into bed. He settles on his side to face Yuuri, whose eyes are trained on the Russian.

There is a span of silence, save the sound of a ticking clock, but neither of them diverts their gazes.

“You aren’t going to fold your clothes?” Yuuri eventually asks in the dark.

“No?”

“That’s unlike you,” the Japanese man says.

“There’s a man in my bed,” Viktor says muses. “The clothes can wait until morning.”

Yuuri sighs lightly, a sound Viktor desperately wants to chalk up to him being tired or to the weariness that comes after the effects of alcohol fade. But something about it reeks of frustration or disappointment. He tries to make out Yuuri’s expression, but his face is obscured by dark shadows. Still, it makes him feel uneasy. He’s desperate to get a grasp on Yuuri’s mood, so Viktor reaches out and places a light hand on Yuuri’s hip.

The muscles under his hand tense for a split second, and then relax again.

“Yuuri?” he asks.

“Yeah?” Yuuri responds easily, to Viktor’s relief.

_Maybe I’m overthinking it._

_“_ Is this okay?” Viktor asks.

“It’s okay,” Yuuri confirms.

The thump in his chest is almost painful. He presses his fingers into a patch of skin between where Yuuri’s shirt is riding up and the waistband of his underpants. Yuuri lets out a small, surprised squeak in return. It’s a wanton sound that makes Viktor’s heart to thump even harder and his ears yearn for a repeat.

Shifting under the sheets, Viktor inches closer to Yuuri until only centimeters separate their bodies and they are practically nose to nose.

“Is _this_ okay?” he asks again.

“Yes,” Yuuri exhales sweetly, his breath still tinged with the smell of rice wine.

Both eyes slip shut as Viktor rolls forward to close the narrow space between them. He nuzzles the side of Yuuri’s nose with his own at first, then carefully nips at Yuuri’s upper lip. Yuuri responds favorably by tipping his head back gently to meet and sigh into Viktor’s kiss. The urge to deepen their kiss as soon as possible threatens to overtake him, but Viktor calls upon his self-control to keep each subsequent kiss slow and sensual.

At some point, Yuuri cups his cheek and groans.

“ _Viktor_ ,” he complains. “Stop teasing me.”

“I’m not trying to tease you,” Viktor replies, voice scratchy. He flattens his hand and slips it under Yuuri’s shirt to roam the sloping curve of his lower back. “But I told you back in Russia, didn’t I? I won’t do anything to make you feel uncomfortable. I don’t want to...”

“It’s uncomfortable,” Yuuri huffs. He squirms against Viktor, and the Russian _feels_ what Yuuri means.

A stiff length presses into his thigh, the sensation of which draws a small gasp from him. Viktor returns his hand to Yuuri’s hip and starts a slow descent inward until he can feel a telling pull of fabric. Electricity runs along his fingers, urging them on, but he stops there, millimeters short of making contact.

“Can I... Is this--?”

“ _Please,”_ Yuuri wheezes. “Just _touch me_ already _.”_ And with his request, he rolls himself into Viktor’s hand.

Viktor chokes on Yuuri’s name, but his hand moves as if it has a mind of its own. He paws at Yuuri through his boxers, tracing the shape and appreciating the weight of his bulge. Yuuri moans long and low; he slips his hand to the back of Viktor’s head and pulls the Russian in until their lips move against each other once more.

_Is this real?_

“More,” Yuuri croaks.

_Please, let this be real._

“So demanding,” Viktor murmurs against him.

But he complies and tugs the waistband over Yuuri’s hips. He pushes them down until he can’t physically push any further; Yuuri takes over and kicks them off on his own. Without the barrier of cloth between them, Viktor feels the heat radiating from Yuuri’s groin and is immediately drawn to it.

The sounds Yuuri makes as Viktor grips his length are low and measured at first. Viktor sets a slow, leisurely pace, running his thumb along the underside of Yuuri’s cock with calculated pressure. Before long, Yuuri’s breathing becomes uneven and desperate lips find Viktor’s over and over, erratic and needy.

“Does it feel good, Yuuri?” Viktor asks hoarsely between kisses.

Yuuri clamps his eyes shut and nods quickly before their lips crash together again. Viktor ventures a slip of the tongue and is pleased when Yuuri opens for him. As he explores the wet cavern of Yuuri’s mouth, the slick of Yuuri’s tongue against his own sends a quake through Viktor that leaves his own member twitching in his briefs. Yuuri must feel it too, because his hands are suddenly pulling at Viktor’s underwear frantically.

“You, too,” he says between heady, panting whimpers. Viktor manages to maneuver his briefs down to his ankles until they slip off on their own and get lost in the sheets.

The moment that Yuuri takes Viktor in his hand, he matches Viktor’s pace. It’s intense and raw, and it leaves the older man trembling in a matter of minutes. Viktor has imagined Yuuri in his bed like this before. He’s fantasized about taking Yuuri apart, cell by cell, and putting him back together again. He’s conjured up the feel of their skin sliding against each other, of the sounds he would draw from this man. He’s also fantasized about Yuuri unraveling _him_ , drawing obscene noises from his gut, laying claim to him. But the reality of being here with this beautiful boy, right now, panting in time while they submit to each other’s touches... it’s almost too much.

“Yuuri,” he whispers raggedly, pressing their foreheads together as he quickens his pace, “It feels so good.”

“M-me, too,” Yuuri stammers. “I think I... I’m close. Viktor... Ah, _Viktor!”_

Something shifts in Viktor. For a long time, he has wanted Yuuri, and at long last, Yuuri wants him, too. But he doesn’t want to rush. With his past partners, feelings had never really played a part on either side. It was all about the moment. Yuuri is different, though. Viktor wants to discover every part of Yuuri, bit by bit, and have Yuuri unearth the parts of Viktor he’s never shown to anyone. That takes time, and from the moment Viktor was aware that Yuuri had thought of him like this as well, Viktor was determined that they go slowly and learn each other inside and out.

But those intentions are fuzzy right now. It’s just the way Yuuri is asserting himself, the way Yuuri is leaking in his hand, the way he moans Viktor’s name like it’s the most natural thing -- it sends Viktor's head spinning. He’d already made up his mind not to go further than this tonight, but the desire to become one with Yuuri suddenly seems overwhelming. With one powerful motion, he grips Yuuri’s wrist, pulls it away from his aching member, and rolls on top of the Japanese skater. The covers fall away and take with them a bit of the dream-like quality Viktor had been experiencing. The cool, crisp air sends a shiver down Viktor’s naked back, and the gravity of what they are doing hits him suddenly.

Even in the dark, Viktor can see Yuuri’s eyes wide with nerves.

“Viktor?” he asks shakily.

The Russian arranges himself on his knees between Yuuri’s legs and leans over him, pinning his wrist next to his head. Yuuri whole body stiffens under him

“It’s all right,” he reassures, dipping his head to trail feathery kisses along Yuuri’s jawline. “Do you trust me?”

“Y-yes.”

“Then don’t worry," he says before he licks a kiss into Yuuri’s mouth. “because I’m going to take such good care of you.”

Viktor drops his lower half slowly, slotting his hips into Yuuri’s, and slides his member alongside the other’s. They both gulp air as Viktor rocks his hips gently, reveling in the sensation of swollen skin on skin.

Under him, Yuuri gasps and moans in short, quick bursts with every push and pull. He grasps Viktor’s shoulder with his free hand and digs his nails in just a little too hard. The sharpness of it electrifies Viktor. He pulls Yuuri’s earlobe between his teeth for a quick nibble; the sound Yuuri makes in response is positively scandalous.

Yuuri’s writhing reaches the point where Viktor almost feels bad for pulling him along. After all, he _had_ told Viktor he was getting close. As discretely as possible, he spits into his hand and slicks himself before repeating the process for Yuuri. It’s not ideal, but he can’t bare the idea of breaking away to find proper lubrication at this point, and he has a feeling Yuuri wouldn’t stand for it, either. He’s alternating between panting and clenching his mouth shut to muffle his outcries, and his eyes are unfocused dark pools.

When Viktor is satisfied, he fists both himself and Yuuri in one hand as best he can. Their combined girth makes wrapping his hand fully around them both impossible, but it’s enough to do what he intends.

“ _God,”_ Yuuri gasps as he arches his back, sliding himself against Viktor’s erection.

He frees Yuuri’s wrist and puts his hand flat on the mattress to stabilize himself as he pumps them both with as much speed as he can muster. The renewed activity leaves Yuuri convulsing under his coach. His bucking hips and twisting body and grappling hands make keeping both a firm grip and consistent pace a daunting task, but Viktor is a master of concentration when he wants to be. Luckily for him, it’s not long before Yuuri is heaving as he comes to his climax: a lead-up of rapid-fire Japanese, a dramatic spasm, and Viktor’s name ringing in the air as he spills over onto Viktor’s fist.

Viktor continues to stroke through Yuuri’s orgasm, but with the added lubrication provided by Yuuri, his own control is fading fast. He quickens his pace to bring himself closer to the tipping point.

“Too much, too much!” Yuuri cries out eventually, his body shaking, and Viktor is forced to let him go.

Admittedly, he’s a bit disappointed at the absence of Yuuri rubbing against him. He’d hoped they could come together. But when he looks down and sees Yuuri’s blissed out face gazing back up at him in the darkness, his chest rising and falling with pants that have yet to subside, and hears his name still a whisper on Yuuri’s lips, the disappointment dissipates into a smug sort of satisfaction.

_I did that. He let me do that. He **wanted** that._

He leans back on his knees and continues to stroke himself furiously while watching Yuuri come down from his high. Eventually, Yuuri reaches out in a silent offer to help; it’s an offer that Viktor would gladly take, but he misses his chance to because it’s the very moment that he feels the tightly wound coil inside of himself snap. His release is explosive; it knocks the air out of his lungs and sends him pitching forward, a fall he controls by bracing himself on one arm again.

When he’s milked himself to completion, Viktor collapses limply to the side and surveys his mess. Yuuri’s shirt caught the worst of it.

“Sorry,” he mutters into his pillow.

Yuuri only shakes his head and lifts his shoulders just enough to carefully pull the soiled shirt up and off. Balling it up, he uses the fabric to clean up any errant mess before offering it to Viktor. Viktor cleans his hand, then discards it onto the floor next to Yuuri’s pants. When he settles back in, he turns to Yuuri and places a hand on his cheek, but says nothing for a while.

After he’s had time to decompress, he asks, “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Yuuri says softly. All of his boldness leading up to their encounter seems to have evaporated, leaving the shy version of Yuuri in his place. “I’m sorry... I didn’t really do much for you, and...”

“No,” Viktor interrupts. “No, no, no. You were perfect. Really. It was wonderful.”

“Wonderful,” Yuuri gulps.

“Wonderful,” Viktor confirms. “For me, anyway. I hope for you, too.”

“For... for me, too,” Yuuri says with a sheepish smile.

Viktor sighs contentedly and reaches for Yuuri, who submits readily. He leans his cheek into Yuuri’s hair and twirls a lock of it around his finger idly. The weight of Yuuri’s head on his shoulder and arm across his torso satisfies some deep-rooted want in Viktor. It’s heaven.

Yuuri tries to stifle a yawn.

“You should sleep,” Viktor says. “I made you work so hard today, and then kept you up even longer.”

“I know but... but we just did _that,_ and i-is it really okay if I sleep here?” Yuuri asks.

Viktor looks down at the crown of Yuuri’s head, genuinely confused. “You’re the one who said you were commandeering my bed, weren’t you?”

“Well, but that was...” Yuuri turns his face into Viktor’s chest, leaving his incomplete thought hanging in the air.

_I don’t get it. He climbed into my bed and said he was fine with-- Oh. **Oh.**_

“ _Yuuri_ ,” Viktor says with a smirk. “You had ulterior motives, didn’t you? You _wanted_ something to happen! And the alcohol, too. Was that part of--?”

The noise that escapes Yuuri is all Viktor needs as confirmation; he breaks into a gleeful laugh. Yuuri’s only response is to curl into a ball and bury his face deeper into Viktor.

“Don’t be embarrassed, Yuuri. I told you that I’d happily give you what you want, and I meant it. And I also meant it when I said you were welcome to sleep here anytime. _All_ the time, if I had my way.”

Yuuri brings his face out of hiding. “Then I’ll sleep here,” he says, simply.

“Good. Then let’s get some rest. Today was fun, but we’re back to full day training in the morning.”

Yuuri exhales, letting the air take with it any remaining tenseness in his muscles. Viktor pulls him [closer](https://hanarezu-ni.tumblr.com/post/161981440539/i-finished-writing-ch-6-of-dissonance-i-still).

“This big bed really is the best,” Yuuri mumbles right when he’s on the verge of sleep. “But it's too big for just me.”

“True,” Viktor replies. 

It strikes him as an odd comment, but he brushes it off. 

_It's nothing. He's just tired._

* * *

 

During the rest of their stay in Hasetsu, Yuuri sleeps in Viktor’s room. At least, he does _most_ nights. Every so often and always without warning, his mood shifts and he insists on sleeping in his own bed, alone. Viktor tries not to take it personally those nights; Yuuri has always been a private person and is used to being alone. Viktor knows he has to respect that, even though the bed feels too big and he misses the warmth of Yuuri’s body next to him.

And anyway, it doesn’t matter too much because when they do sleep together, it’s bliss. They curl into each other. They kiss lightly, and then not so lightly. Twice, they’d repeated variations of their first encounter -- once when Viktor had initiated, and once when Yuuri had woken him up in the middle of the night to outright _ask_ for it but in the end was the one who did most of the work (which had very nearly given Viktor a heart attack out of sheer excitement).

Yuuri is actually quite forward; he steals kisses and reaches for Viktor often, which delights the Russian, and he is accepting of Viktor’s never-ending affection. They even start going into the hot springs together again, though Yuuri scolds Viktor’s inability to keep his hands off Yuuri when they do.

Aside from Viktor’s new favorite pastime of cuddling with the Japanese skater, their days in Hasetsu have been a whirlwind of practices, last minute program changes (because Yuuri loves a challenge), and the added pressure of Yuuri’s idea for his exhibition skate (because Yuuri may very well be crazy).

“I want to do your Stammi Vicino,” Yuuri had said over breakfast on the morning after their first encounter.

“My program?”

“Yes. If my theme this year is love, then I want to recreate the program that made me fall in love with skating again. I want to show the audience the reason I made it to Barcelona,” Yuuri had explained. “And I want to show you how grateful I am.”

As flattering as it was, Yuuri’s request had hurt. That program had been the story of Viktor’s heartache. It was the story of the heartache that Yuuri had caused when he’d drunkenly given him a taste of something amazing in Sochi and then disappeared -- something Yuuri had _still_ never brought up or acknowledged and seemingly never would.

Viktor was on the verge of turning down the idea when Yuuri added, “But I want to skate it together.”

“Together?”

“A pair skate. To the duet, not the aria.”

His heart went from sinking to soaring. Viktor immediately agreed, and long hours of practicing lifts and altered choreography (as well as a panicked call to Viktor’s preferred costume designer on Yuuri’s behalf) had started that same day.

Eventually, in order to find time to work on this new exhibition in addition to Yuuri’s usual programs, Viktor has to take Yuuko’s offer to move around other customers’ reservations. Yuuri swears Yuuko to secrecy about the reason why.

Time runs out quickly; tomorrow afternoon, they will board the first of their flights to Spain. On their last full day in Japan before the competition, they spend the morning on a run-through of all three programs, and then Viktor suspends practice altogether to allow themselves time to pack, spend time with Yuuri’s family, and relax. In the early evening, Yuuri’s parents whip up a decadent dinner and invite Minako and the Nishigori family over. It’s loud and busy and messy, and Viktor loves every second of it.

“It’s too bad you were so busy this whole time,” Yuuko says to Viktor. “You two look pretty worn out after practicing all those lifts.”

“ _Yuu-chan!_ ” Yuuri hisses. “It’s a secret, remember?”

“Oh, sorry!” Yuuko whispers from under the hand she slaps over her mouth.

“Lifts? What lifts?!” the triplets beg in unison, tugging at Viktor’s shirt.

The Russian pats each one of them on the head. “It’s a surprise. You’ll just have to wait and see.”

“But she’s right,” Minako interjects. “You didn’t have much time to enjoy yourselves, did you?”

“That’s all right,” Viktor says with an affectionate smile. “We made time here and there. Oh, and Yuuri took me to see the light-up down by the river! That was really lovely.” He casts a knowing glance in Yuuri’s direction, which sets off a faint blush over the apples of his cheeks.

“That dinky thing?” Mari sneers as she refills empty cups with a fresh pot of tea. “It’s so tacky! I’m sure Viktor’s seen better ones, Yuuri.” She turns to Viktor. “The one in Kobe is great, you know.”

“It’s not tacky,” Yuuri protests. “It’s just... simple.”

“I rather liked it,” Viktor agrees. “I’d love to go back next year.”

Yuuri’s face drops as he turns his attention from his sister to Viktor. “Next year?”

Viktor nods. “You said they do it every year.”

“Well, yeah, but...”

“But?” Viktor asks with a tilt of his head.

“But next year, won’t you be busy with training?”

Viktor furrows his brows. _What is he getting at?_

 _“_ Of course we’ll probably be busy, but we can make time, can’t we?” he offers.

“No,” Yuuri says. “I mean, won’t you be busy with your _own_ training? In Saint Petersburg?”

“My own training?”

“For your comeback,” Yuuri says slowly.

The atmosphere in the room changes drastically, just like _that_. What was just moments ago a lighthearted warmth that Viktor savored becomes a thick, oppressive smog that makes his stomach churn. His jaw tightens as he eyes Yuuri, who is staring right back at him, brows lifted. The others in the room shift nervously on their spots in silence.

“Now, now,” Yuuri’s father says congenially after a long, awful pause, “you two can talk about that later. Yuuri, your mother made your favorite dessert for you.”

Yuuri glances at his father, then back to Viktor. Viktor finds his default smile and pastes it on with terrifying efficiency.

“Yes, we can talk about it later,” he says.

* * *

 

When their guests have gone home, Viktor and Yuuri retire upstairs. The rest of the evening had been spent in an awkward truce, but now Yuuri is tight-lipped and fidgety, and Viktor feels like there’s a slow-burning fuse inside of him. He’s afraid of what might happen if he lets it run its course, so he needs to extinguish it _now._ At the top of the stairs, he grabs Yuuri’s wrist hand and pulls him into his room, sliding the door behind him with just a little too much force. Makkachin slips in just in the nick of time and takes his usual spot on the couch.

Yuuri flinches at the loud crack of the door against the frame but says nothing.

Viktor yanks the chain for the overhead light and turns to look at the younger man. “I’m very confused, Yuuri.”

Yuuri toes one foot with the other. Still, nothing.

“Yuuri.”

“What?”

“ _Talk_ to me. I don’t understand what you meant about a comeback or whatever,” Viktor says sharply.

“I meant exactly what I said,” Yuuri retorts, raising his eyes to meet Viktor’s. “After this season, you’ll have to start thinking about how to make up for lost time.”

“Lost time? What does that mean? You think my being here is pointless?”

It’s not that Viktor doesn’t ever get angry, but it’s rare. Or rather, it’s rare for him to let himself care enough to be angry. Life is easier when he lets things roll off his back. But now, the flame at the end of his fuse is growing in size, and he can feel the fire creeping into every cell of his body.

“No!” Yuuri says. “It’s not pointless. But this isn’t your _career,_ Viktor! Weren’t you planning on going back to it eventually?”

Viktor shrugs. “I hadn’t given it much thought, to be honest. But apparently, you have.”

His last statement is petty. He knows that. But then Yuuri tugs awkwardly at the hem of his shirt, neither denying or confirming, and that’s when something occurs to Viktor: he’s hit the nail right on the head.

“The night you slept in here for the first time, you said something about taking my bed in the future... like I wasn’t going to be using it,” he says. “Have you just been _assuming_ I’d be leaving this whole time?”

Yuuri says something under his breath in Japanese, which admittedly rubs Viktor the wrong way, but he continues. “And anyway, what if I want to make _coaching_ my career?”

Yuuri’s mouth falls open, and then his hands are flailing. “You can’t just leave skating like it was _nothing,_ Viktor! You’re... you’re _Viktor Nikiforov!”_ he says, voice pitchy with a forceful kind of passion that Viktor rarely sees except for when they’re on the ice.

Viktor studies the features of Yuuri's face: the way the space between his eyebrows creases when he's being stubborn, the hard line of his jaw when he thinks he knows best but is too humble to say so, the particular shine of his brown eyes when he's being assertive. Viktor doesn't hate this Yuuri; quite the opposite, actually. This Yuuri is exciting. Alluring, even. But how is it possible for someone to be so extraordinary and so infuriating at the same time?

"You aren't being fair," Viktor sighs as he drops down onto the couch beside Makkachin and runs an idle hand over the dog's back. "You can't decide that for me, Yuuri."

Yuuri moves to the bed and sits on the edge. He slides his fingers into his hair and ruffles it with a frustrated groan.

“Anyway, what about you?” Viktor asks. “Didn’t you ask me to stay with you until you retired? Or were those just pretty words?”

“They weren’t,” Yuuri insists. “But... don’t you miss it?”

“Not as much as I thought I might,” Viktor says. It’s the truth.

Yuuri looks up at him, eyes glowing with disbelief. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Viktor says, his facial muscles relaxing into a soft smile. “Besides, I’d miss you.”

It’s also the truth.

“Now who’s using pretty words?” Yuuri huffs.

Yuuri’s peevishness is cute and strangely humorous. It makes Viktor laugh, and that laugh dims, then ultimately stamps out, the fire that’s been threatening to trigger a bigger explosion. Reaching out a hand, he calls Yuuri’s name.

“Come here,” he requests.

Yuuri stands, shoulders slumped like he’s carrying weights on them, and crosses the space between them. Viktor takes his hand as soon as he’s able to and pulls Yuuri down into his lap. More than anything, he wants this to be over. But there’s one thing he _needs_ to hear from Yuuri first.

_Even if I hate the answer._

“Yuuri,” he starts, then inhales deeply. “Could it be that you _want_ me to go?”

“No!” Yuuri practically shouts without hesitation. And then softer, “No. That’s not it.”

Viktor snakes his arms around the smaller man’s waist and exhales his relief. “Then I’ll stay.”

Yuuri dips his head to bring their foreheads together and closes his eyes. “Okay,” he whispers with a defeated sigh.

 _He’s surprisingly agreeable all of a sudden,_ Viktor thinks to himself.

“Okay?” he double-checks.

Yuuri nods. “But promise me something.”

“Anything,” Viktor breathes.

“If you ever, even for one moment, think you might want to go back to the ice,” Yuuri says, “then do it. Please.”

Viktor frowns. Yuuri still hasn’t given up on this comeback idea, it seems. But Viktor is sure he doesn’t want to leave Yuuri’s side. Not now, not ever. So it’s not a hard decision to make.

 _“_ All right,” he concedes as he lifts a hand to Yuuri’s face. He presses a kiss into pliant lips. “I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Next time:**  
>  Viktor isn’t a bad person. 
> 
> _In fact,_ Yuuri thinks, _he’s a lot more genuine than I would have ever expected._
> 
> And that’s what makes this so painful. When Viktor told Yuuri he wanted to stay, he meant it. When he told the other skaters that their rings were an engagement, he meant it. But he also promised Yuuri he’d go back to the ice if he ever had even an inkling to do so, and Yuuri believes he meant that, too. So when he saw the look in Viktor’s eyes when Yurio broke his record and heard the analytical comments he made about the others’ programs, Yuuri knew what needed to happen next.  
> \--
> 
> First, I want to thank whoever recommended my fic the other week for [Victuuri Fan Rec Friday](http://victuurificrec.tumblr.com/post/161635770858/yoi-fan-rec-friday). I got an influx of new readers, comments, kudos, and subscriptions, and it really, really made my day. If you have any fandom friends who you think would like this fic, please rec away! If you’re on tumblr, I’d love if you’d tag me [@hanarezu-ni](https://hanarezu-ni.tumblr.com/) so I can thank you properly! 
> 
> I really love interacting with you guys. Thank you for all the wonderful feedback. ❤❤❤
> 
> This chapter took so time, so thanks for your patience! I knew what I wanted to do with it, but I kept changing the order of events. And all the fluffiness made me too giddy, so I ended up stopping a lot to roll around. 
> 
> But also, ( **and this is important to know if you’re following this fic** ) I’ve got some big stuff coming up in the next month or two which includes moving a looooooong way away. I’ll continue to write, but I may have to take a brief hiatus before I finish this story in order to deal with that. But don’t lose hope, because I promise this thing has already been planned to completion, and we’ve only got three more chapters to go! 
> 
> And finally, here is some linky stuff in case you missed it in the text:  
> 1\. Yuuri chose Russian composer [Sergei Rachmaninov](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sergei_Rachmaninoff) in the record shop. The song I imagined them listening to is called [Romance.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9v1HW8Fgt_s) Appropriate, right? 
> 
> 2\. Here is [some art I did](https://hanarezu-ni.tumblr.com/post/161981440539/i-finished-writing-ch-6-of-dissonance-i-still) a while ago while outlining this chapter. It takes place post-smut scene. 
> 
> See you next chapter!


	7. Misgivings (Yuuri)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let’s end this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the moment you have all been waiting for (with dread in your hearts). Prepare yourselves. 
> 
> Generally, I don't want to include scenes from the episodes. I prefer to only reference them since this story is supposed to fill in the blanks in the canon. But it didn't feel right to skip their tiff and their ring exchange altogether, especially since that episode is largely from Viktor's perspective and this chapter is from Yuuri's. I think it's important (for this story) that we get to hear Yuuri's thoughts about those things.

It’s bad.

Yuuri thought he could handle it; he thought he could deal with the temporary nature of his... _whatever_ this is with Viktor. It’s what _he_ decided, after all. But Viktor is too good at this. Too wonderful, too beautiful, too inviting. He makes it too hard to keep a certain distance, and now Yuuri has _hope._ It’s misplaced and ill-advised hope, but he has it, and it’s terrifying. And wonderful. But mostly terrifying.

When Yuuri had asked Viktor to stay with him until he retired, he meant just that. He knew his retirement was right around the corner. He’d made up his mind. It was a request for permission to touch and desire and take, but with a short shelf life. Viktor had agreed, and Yuuri thought they had reached a mutual understanding. But now Viktor Nikiforov is talking about next year, about becoming a career coach, about _staying_. He’s talking about things in the future tense, and suddenly Yuuri doesn’t know what to do.

His determination is faltering. Maybe retiring right now isn’t necessary. Not if Viktor is willing to stay by his side. Maybe there _can_ be more.

 _A future with Viktor,_ Yuuri thinks. _Is it really okay for me to want that? To take it?_

Half of him is ecstatic at the thought. It means that he doesn’t have to let go yet, a possibility he hadn’t prepared himself for. But it also means that Viktor will never go back to the ice, and Yuuri isn’t quite sure he’s prepared for that either. From the moment he decided to chase his skating dreams, Yuuri’s entire motivation was to skate on the same ice with Viktor. Having Viktor as a coach is beyond amazing, but it’s not the same as facing him as an equal. Keeping Viktor in one sense means losing him in another.

Which one does he want more? And if he keeps Viktor, what will happen to his own motivation?

 _Keeping him would be selfish,_ Yuuri tells himself. And then he punches it out on his phone’s keyboard and sends it as the next message in a conversation he’s having with Phichit.

 

 **[Phichit]** It’s OK to be selfish sometimes, you know.

 **[Phichit]** Especially if he told you himself that he wants to stay.

 **[Yuuri]** But his skating...

 **[Phichit]** He was right though. You don’t get to make that decision. If he wants to stay, and you want him to stay, then what’s the problem?

 **[Phichit]** You have a bad habit of denying yourself the chance to enjoy things.

 **[Phichit]** You deserve to enjoy things too, Yuuri.

 **[Yuuri]** And if he DOES decide he wants to go back to skating...?

 **[Yuuri]** Or when he gets bored with this? With me?

 **[Yuuri]** What then?

 **[Yuuri]** I thought I could handle letting him go, but now I’m not so sure.

 **[Yuuri]** Maybe I’m just prolonging the inevitable.

 **[Yuuri]** Probably the longer this goes on, the worse it’s going to hurt.

 **[Phichit]** Sharing a room with him really isn’t going to help you in that department. ;)

 **[Yuuri]** YOU’RE not helping.

 **[Phichit]** What is he doing right now, anyway? I’m surprised you’re even texting me.

 **[Phichit]** I figured you’d be busy doing other things.

 **[Phichit]** ~Sexy~ things.

 

Yuuri, bent over his phone as he sits on the low ledge below a large window, lifts his eyes to glance at the Russian skater. Viktor is flitting back and forth between his suitcase and the closet, where he is hanging each piece of clothing gingerly on velvet-lined hangers and placing them at evenly spaced intervals in the closet of their Barcelona hotel room -- the one Viktor had insisted they share ( “I’ve gotten too used to sleeping together,” he’d whined). Their eyes meet and Viktor flashes him an easy, warm smile.

“Tell Phichit I said ‘Hi!’,” he says.

 **[Yuuri]** Shut up. He’s unpacking. He says hello.

 **[Phichit]**!!!!!!!

 **[Phichit]** HI VIKTOR!!!!

 **[Yuuri]** Anyway, what should I do? After the Final, I mean?

 **[Yuuri]** I’d pretty much decided to cut ties, but now...

 **[Phichit]** Sorry, buddy. I can’t help you there.

 **[Phichit]** Just like only Viktor can decide what to do about his skating career, only you can decide what to do about this.

 **[Yuuri]** I know.

 **[Yuuri]** But it’d be so much easier if someone could just make the choice for me.

 **[Phichit]** Seems to me you just need to decide if this whole thing is worth getting hurt over or not.

 **[Phichit]** (Though I still recommend talking to him directly. But I know you don’t want to hear that. Which is why I’m using parentheses.)

 **[Yuuri]** Sigh.

 **[Phichit]** Anyway, my luggage is finally here, so I have to grab it and go catch this taxi to the hotel with Ciao Ciao. We still on for a meet-up tonight? I miss you!!

 **[Yuuri]** Yeah, just give me a call when you’re ready to go and I’ll come find you. Looking forward to it.

 

Phichit ends the conversation with a row of red hearts. Yuuri turns the display off and sets the phone to the side with a heavy sigh, followed by a louder yawn. Viktor tips his head to one side, a charcoal suit jacket still in hand.

“Is everything alright?” he asks.

Yuuri rubs the back of his head. “Fine,” he says.

Viktor purses his lips as if he’s actively trying _not_ to ask a question, but this trained gaze is betraying him entirely. Yuuri gives him a lopsided smile.

“Phichit asked me to meet up with him later tonight. He wants me to go with him to see Sagrada Familia once it’s all lit up.”

“That sounds nice,” Viktor nods. “I’m glad you have a friend competing with you this year.”

“Do you want to come with us?” Yuuri offers.

Viktor hangs the suit jacket before turning back to Yuuri, his features soft and lips curled upward. “I appreciate the invite, but you should spend some time with your friend. Besides, I’ve seen Sagrada Familia and it’s... not my taste.”

“Will you be alright by yourself?” Yuuri asks.

“Am I a child now?” Viktor laughs. He crosses the room and flops down onto Yuuri’s bed, then rolls onto his back.

“I just thought you might be... lonely. Or something.”

Viktor lifts his head to peer at Yuuri. His eyes are wide with a sort of shock, or maybe disbelief. It’s hard to read, but Yuuri feels suddenly shy.

 _Of course Viktor isn’t lonely._ He’s Viktor _. People are dying to be next to him,_ Yuuri reminds himself. _Myself included._

“I will be _so_ lonely,” Viktor says with a wicked grin. He rolls to the side to reach out and grab Yuuri’s arm in one fluid motion.

Yuuri yelps as he’s yanked forward onto the bed. He faceplants into the mattress and he is immediately scrambling to his feet again. “Viktor! What are you--”

Viktor grabs at him again, snaking both arms around Yuuri’s biceps, and pulls the Japanese skater down on top of him. Yuuri is lying diagonally across him, chest to chest and with his chin resting in the hollow of Viktor’s neck.

“Charging,” he says in Yuuri’s ear.

Yuuri’s immediate response is to get up on his arms as not to crush his coach, but Viktor seems to have other ideas. He moves his hands from Yuuri’s upper arms to around his shoulders and tugs him back down for the third time in a stubborn embrace.

“I _said_ I’m charging,” Viktor whines.

“Charging _what?”_

“My Yuuri battery,” Viktor says smoothly. “If I don’t do it now, I might run out while you’re gone.”

“What happens if you run out?” Yuuri asks (and then immediately cringes for doing so).

“I shrivel up and die,” Viktor sighs tragically.

“That sounds unpleasant.”

“Extremely. So hush and let me charge.”

Yuuri sighs, though he finds that he can’t help but smile. He also can’t help the way he nuzzles into Viktor’s neck and lets his muscles relax in Viktor’s arms. Viktor smells like wood and honey. It’s the same smell of his bed sheets back in Hasetsu.

“Fine,” he yawns against Viktor’s throat.

He rests his hand on Viktor’s opposite shoulder and closes his eyes, concentrating on the pulse of blood that thrums along Viktor’s neck and reverberates on Yuuri’s lips. He can almost imagine the sound of it under the thin, pale stretch of skin.

“Don’t sleep,” Viktor advises as he combs a hand through Yuuri’s tousled hair. “You’ll miss your date with Phichit, and then your sleep schedule will be completely backward. You have open practice in the morning.”

“I’ll be fine,” Yuuri grumbles. “And it’s not a date. I only do that with you.”

“Oh! I just got a big surge of power!” Viktor cheers.

Yuuri chuckles. “I’ll only nap for a little bit. He won’t be ready for another few hours, I think.”

“Should I wake you at a certain time?” Viktor offers as he rhythmically passes his hand through Yuuri’s hair over and over again.

“No,” Yuuri yawns again. “I’ll wake up when he calls. Just stay here with me until I doze off. That feels nice.”

“Of course,” Viktor says.

Yuuri doesn’t try to stop the encroaching heaviness of oncoming sleep. It dims sounds and makes his eyelids feel heavy even when they’re already closed. Maybe it’s the start of a dream, but he swears he feels the press of lips to his forehead and the sudden absence of his glasses.

* * *

 

Yuuri didn’t wake up. Well, he did, but the sun was gone, the room was dark and empty, and he had five missed calls and a handful of messages from Phichit feigning outrage at being stood up. He thought to respond, but somehow waking up alone in the room had thrown him off and sent him into a bad headspace. Doubts about all sorts of things began creeping in and he couldn’t slow them down. Right as he wished for Viktor to appear and help him allay his negative thoughts, the Russian had suddenly burst into the room (with Chris in tow) and had initiated an attack that left all three men tangled up on the bed and Yuuri, shivering in damp sweats. His previous worries scurried back into the recesses of his mind, replaced by the unpleasant feeling of cold, damp cotton sticking to his skin.

Yuuri goes to the bathroom to change into something dry and to run the hot bath Viktor requested. The other two men sit side-by-side on Viktor’s bed, bundled up in separate comforters while they converse congenially in French. As he turns around to close the door, he catches Chris’ eye. The Swiss skater meets his stare with a smug smirk and a wink of the eye. Yuuri’s heart lurches for reasons he can’t quite pinpoint; all he can bring himself to do is frown back, then close the door.

While the water is running, he takes the opportunity to reply to Phichit.

 

 **[Yuuri]** Phichit! Sorry!!!

 **[Phichit]** You had better be in the middle of being ravished by Viktor Nikiforov. Otherwise I will never forgive you.

 **[Yuuri]** I don’t know about being ravished, but I fell asleep in his arms if that counts for anything?

 **[Phichit]**...I GUESS.

 **[Yuuri]** Really though, I’m so sorry! The jet lag got me.

 **[Phichit]** No worries. We’ve still got time to hang out. See you tomorrow at practice, OK?

 **[Yuuri]** Definitely. See you tomorrow.

 

He sets the phone aside and pulls off his sweatshirt and pants, tossing them in a corner of the bathroom. After he slips into another pair of sweatpants, he realizes he forgot a top. It’s no matter, though; the bathroom is already steamed up and, while Barcelona isn’t as cold as Russia had been, Viktor had immediately cranked up the heat after the three of them had disentangled themselves.

Just as he turns off the water, Yuuri hears Viktor shriek with laughter. Yanking the door open, he finds his coach sprawled out on his bed, still in just his bathing suit. Chris is leaning over him, one knee on the bed between Viktor’s legs. His robe is dangerously loose and his hands bracket the Russian skater’s head on the mattress.

Yuuri’s mouth goes dry and his heart feels like it may implode.

_What is this? What were they doing?_

“Oh, Yuuri,” Chris says when both sets of eyes find Yuuri in the doorway. He backs off the bed and tightens the sash of his impossibly short robe. “You can forget about making tea. I’ll be going back to my room now.”

“Oh. Um. Sure.” Each word is punctuated and flat. Yuuri tries to smile politely, but his face is all at once made of stone.

“And you,” Chris says, glancing back to Viktor. “I’ll be waiting.”

_Waiting for **what?**_

Viktor pushes himself up and arranges himself in a sit against the pillows stacked at the head of the bed. “See you tomorrow, Chris,“ he says with a wave of his hand.

“Yes. Tomorrow. _Bonsoir,_ you two. Sorry to intrude _,”_ Chris calls over his shoulder as he makes his way to and out of the door.

When it clicks shut, Viktor looks back to Yuuri. He’s smiling, and then he’s not. When his crisp blue eyes meet Yuuri’s own, all the color drains from his coach’s face. Yuuri clenches and unclenches his fist at his side, trying to calm the voice in his head that is suddenly screaming _I told you so._ And the voice is right. Yuuri had somehow started to let himself believe that Viktor might actually want to be with him, that maybe this could be something more than just a fling for convenience’s sake. That they could stay together. But that was stupid.

“Your bath is ready,” Yuuri says, unmoving.

Viktor doesn’t move, either. “Yuuri, what’s wrong?”

“...Nothing.”

Pause. Stare. They remain motionless.

“Please tell me what’s wrong,” Viktor asks again at length, softer.

Yuuri swallows. “I just... didn’t realize you were... you know. With other people, too. Also. At the same time as me, I mean.”

“What?”

“It’s my fault,” Yuuri says, letting his eyes drift down to his feet. “I just assumed that you and I...”

“Yuuri, stop.”

Yuuri clamps his mouth shut and crosses his arms across his naked chest to rub at his biceps awkwardly.

“Chris and I...that’s not the kind of relationship we have,” Viktor says carefully.

Yuuri cocks an eyebrow. “I’m not blind, Viktor. I just _saw_ you,” he says. He’s going for calm. It comes out pure snark. “Chris was practically on top of you, and he had nothing on under that robe.”

“All I can tell you is the truth,” Viktor says, “and the truth is that it’s nothing like you’re thinking.”

A sick pressure expands in Yuuri’s chest. Rationally, he knows he has no right to be upset. They never agreed to be exclusive, and this isn’t even a real relationship. But it doesn’t matter, because he can’t think rationally right now. His mind is clouded with the image of Chris, whose reputation as a flirt rivals Viktor’s own, trapping the silver-haired man against the bed, leaning down, and then...?

“What were you even doing with him before you came back?” Yuuri spits.

“You fell asleep, and you had plans later, so I decided to go to the pool on my own. I ran into Chris there. He went skinny dipping, I didn’t.”

His explanation does nothing to assuage the storm brewing in Yuuri’s heart and mind. In fact, it only exacerbates things. Viktor is supposed to belong to _him_ right now. Yuuri knows it’s not forever, but he can’t stand for anyone to impede on the time he does have. Without any real thought, he crosses the space between him and Viktor’s bed in two long strides and climbs up to lean over his coach in the same manner Chris had done moments prior.

“Look,” he says, setting his features into hard, tense lines, “I know we never talked about it before, but while you’re with me, you’re with _only_ me. Otherwise, I can’t -- won’t -- do this.”

It’s a terrible bluff, and Yuuri knows it. What leverage does he have to make such a demand of the world’s most eligible bachelor? None, of course. Viktor can and will most likely shrug his shoulders, say he can’t make such a promise, then smile while he tells Yuuri it was fun while it lasted.

_Bad move._

But he’s said it, and now he steels himself, waiting for the inevitable. Viktor’s mouth twitches almost imperceptibly. A flash of pink passes smoothly over his lips and is gone just as quickly as it came.

“Of course, Yuuri,” the Russian says, voice thick.

The ease of which Viktor agrees is completely unexpected; it takes Yuuri aback. He sits back and blinks at the handsome face looking up from below.

“Really?”

“Of course,” Viktor says again, reaching out to take Yuuri’s left hand.

“What about Chris?”

“What _about_ Chris? Chris has never been that sort of presence in my life.”

“You’ve never...?”

“Have _you?”_

“Huh?” Yuuri blinks, confused. He’s known Chris casually for a while, but they’ve not once ever spent any time together that wasn’t strictly professional. Viktor’s question doesn’t make sense.

Viktor tips his head to one side with a small sigh. “There have been some drunken nights when we were younger where we got a little hands-on, I admit. It never went beyond groping and maybe some sloppy kissing here and there. But that’s it, and it hasn’t happened in years.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Yuuri says tartly.

Viktor shrugs. “We’ve never been _together,_ it that’s what you’re imagining. And I’ve never considered it seriously. Besides, Chris has been seeing someone for a while now, and contrary to what the public believes, they’re rather devoted to each other.”

Yuuri studies every muscle in Viktor’s face, looking for some kind of tell. He finds none. “Then what was that just now?” he finally asks.

“It wasn’t anything. Nothing happened. Nothing was _going_ to happen. He was just teasing me.”

“Teasing you,” Yuuri repeats dryly. When Viktor nods the affirmative, Yuuri asks, “About what?”

This time, Viktor is the one searching Yuuri’s face. It makes the younger skater squirm with uncertainty like he should prepare himself for an answer that will bottom out his heart. But then Viktor’s face turns from milky white to a rosy pink.

“About you,” Viktor says after clearing his throat. “He knows. About you and me. About _us_.” He clears his throat again. “He knows how taken I am with you.”

Yuuri’s mouth falls open. All of the pressure in his chest deflates in one go, and he’s left feeling shell-shocked. “ _Taken?_ With _me?”_

“Completely and utterly,” Viktor affirms with a defeated sigh. He tilts his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. “It’s sort of scary, if you want the truth.”

All at once, it’s like all of the air has been punched out of Yuuri’s lungs and his body has been set on fire.

“I uh.... I don’t know what to say,” Yuuri stammers, pressing his free hand to his burning cheek.

Viktor opens one eye to peek out at Yuuri. “Then just say what you’re honestly thinking,” he suggests solemnly as he gives Yuuri’s hand a gentle squeeze. “I promise I’ll listen.”

Yuuri covers his mouth with his hand and tries to find the words, but everything seems... not enough. Eventually, he drops his hand and says, “Me, too. With you.”

Viktor closes his eye and exhales a long breath that turns into a childish giggle. “Oh my god, Yuuri,” he laughs. “Really? Oh my _god._ I’m _so_ relieved.”

The lilt of Viktor’s laugh shatters any residual tension in Yuuri’s body and he slumps forward over the other man to press his forehead against Viktor’s bare chest. Viktor’s laughter quiets as brings his hands to Yuuri’s arms and runs them up and down their full length, from shoulder to wrist. It sends a shiver down Yuuri’s spine, but he can’t bring himself to look up or speak.

“Yuuri?” Viktor ventures after a long drag of silence.

“You promise nothing was going on?” Yuuri asks without looking up.

“Nothing at all,” Viktor reiterates.

“And there’s no one else?”

“Not even the _thought_ of someone else,” Viktor says, moving his hands from Yuuri’s arms to his naked sides. “Only you.”

Viktor’s touch coupled with his reassurance sets off something inside Yuuri, something raw and possessive and needy. He lifts his head, bringing his face eye-level with Viktor and captures his bottom lip between his teeth. Viktor lets out a short, high cry.

“Prove it,” Yuuri growls when he lets it go.

Viktor brushes his fingertips over mouth where it’s already a bit swollen from the force of Yuuri’s nip. His eyelids flutter half-shut under those long, heavy lashes. “Prove it?” he murmurs.

“S-show me,” Yuuri gulps, chiding himself internally for hesitating, “how _taken_ you really are.”

Yuuri shudders as Viktor drags both hands down his sides and dips them past the waist of his sweatpants. “Very well,” he whispers before shoving both Yuuri’s pants and boxers down as far as they will go until the elastic band is stretched to its full capacity across Yuuri’s thick thighs.

Yuuri is already half-hard from Viktor’s caresses and the way he’s zeroed his focus in on Yuuri’s thighs. As his length is freed from its fabric confines and rapidly grows to stand at attention, Yuuri groans. Viktor murmurs something in Russian and runs his hands down Yuuri’s upper thighs, then back around to his ass, before grabbing a handful of muscle. His grip forces Yuuri up on his knees so Viktor can pull his hips closer.

Yuuri jerks forward and grabs for Viktor’s shoulders to steady himself. His member is _so close_ to Viktor’s face and it seems like the whole situation should be embarrassing, or at the very least make him a blush from shyness. But as he looks down and sees Viktor’s eyes glass over and the pink tip of his tongue flick over his lips again, Yuuri feels _empowered_.

“Do it,” he orders, surprised at the authority of his own voice.

Viktor’s mouth lolls open on command. He wraps his strong arms around Yuuri’s waist and, as he lids his eyes, closes the distance between them by swallowing him to the hilt. The rush of wetness and humidity around his length sends a shock through Yuuri that threatens to knock the smaller skater off balance again. He leans over Viktor and places a hand flat against the wall to brace himself.

“ _Viktor,”_ he breathes.

Below, Viktor corkscrews his tongue over Yuuri. It’s hot and messy and it sends Yuuri into overdrive. He fists a clump of fine, silvery hair between his fingers and pulls Viktor in. His hips buck without warning, a primal reaction to the feeling of the head of his cock bumping against Viktor’s pallet. The muffled sound of surprise that vibrates along his erection brings Yuuri back to Earth for a moment.

“Oh m-- sorry! Sorry. Are you okay?” Yuuri asks in a throaty whisper as he eases himself out of Viktor’s mouth. “I didn’t mean--”

Viktor slides his hands up Yuuri’s back, willing him to stay where he is. He looks up through heavy lashes. “Do it again.”

“W-what?”

“I liked it.”

Yuuri’s lips twitch, that same confidence from before pulsing hotter in his veins. “You liked it,” he repeats darkly.

Viktor nods, eyes still dreamy and distant. Yuuri feels something wicked stir inside his chest.

 _Here is living legend Viktor Nikiforov, ruddy-faced and gorgeous, asking me to fuck his mouth,_ he narrates to himself in disbelief. (But Viktor seems serious, so…)

Gently, he yanks on Viktor’s hair, urging him to take him inside once more. Viktor submits, moaning as his lips slide slowly over Yuuri.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” Yuuri says as he presses his hips into Viktor’s face. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Viktor responds with a ghost of a nod and curls his long fingers over Yuuri’s hips. Once more, Yuuri hunches over Viktor, steadied by a hand on the wall. With a firm grip in Viktor’s hair to keep his head in place, Yuuri begins thrusting into Viktor’s willing mouth. At first, his movements are short, shallow, and punctuated. One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three. Viktor’s strangled groans concern him, but the Russian counters any attempt Yuuri makes to back out. Eventually, Yuuri gives in and finds a rhythmic pace that seems to work for both of them. Viktor’s groans turn to hums, and Yuuri is able to lose himself as he slides in deep. Sweat beads along his hairline and he pants loudly as he fucks into Viktor’s mouth, feels the pressure of a thick tongue along his underside and the rubbing of his head against the cavern walls at the entrance to Viktor’s throat.

As Yuuri feels his approaching orgasm build, Viktor slips one hand down his side to the inside of his thigh before reaching back up to cup his balls. He massages them, gently tugging and rolling them in his palm.

“Fuck,” Yuuri gasps, slowing for a time to adjust to the added sensation. It’s just so much, but it’s so good, and is Viktor _laughing_ while he has Yuuri in his mouth?

With renewed focus, Yuuri picks up where he left off and pistons his hips, driving himself in as far as Viktor will take him until he can’t contain himself anymore. He gasps out a warning to Viktor, who clutches at Yuuri until the Japanese skater pours himself down the back of the older man’s throat with a lewd whine.

When Viktor has removed himself (with a cough or two), Yuuri’s legs crumble from underneath him. He falls to the side, breath ragged and strained. He is a crumpled, boneless mess. Viktor slips down the mattress to stretch out on his side. He reaches out and strokes the bit of hair behind Yuuri’s ear that sticks out from the rest. His eyes are wet, his upturned mouth swollen, red, and glistening with a mix of saliva and Yuuri’s fluids.

“Sorry,” Yuuri whispers when he dares to make eye contact.

“Don’t be,” Viktor protests. “I enjoyed it. I’d be happy to do it again.”

“I didn’t know you um... liked that kind of thing,” Yuuri says sheepishly. He reaches out and wipes at Viktor’s chin with his fingertips.

“Neither did I,” Viktor grins. “I’ve never done that before. Never seemed that appealing, actually.”

Yuuri’s heart skips a beat and, judging by the way Viktor’s smile widens, he thinks he must be blushing. He can’t tell; his whole body feels on fire.

“Then why...?” he ventures.

“You seemed like you wanted to, so I wanted to try,” Viktor explains. When Yuuri’s face turns red(der?), Viktor chuckles. “See? Completely and _utterly_ taken.”

Yuuri smiles a small, awkward little simper. He catches the wrist of the hand that continues to stroke him behind the ear. “Thank you,” he says, bringing Viktor’s knuckles to his lips.

“Thank _you_ ,” Viktor purrs, extending his fingers to brush the tips over Yuuri’s lower lip.

After a few minutes pass, when Yuuri’s breathing has regulated and some of the heat has evaporated from his body, he allows his gaze to roam the pale form next to him. Toned shoulders. Taut muscles shape both arms with an inhuman symmetry. A broad chest. The developed ridges of a vee dipping down and disappearing under the tight fabric of Viktor’s swimming shorts. An erection that probably rivaled Yuuri’s own at one point but is starting to slowly deflate.

His body begins to warm again.

“Should I...for you?” Yuuri asks, gesturing vaguely to Viktor’s lower half.

“Only if you want to,” Viktor says sincerely.

Yuuri glances back up at Viktor’s face. It’s contented and angelic, and _Yes,_ Yuuri thinks, _I want to see that angelic face twist and fall apart because of me._

Sitting up, he pushes at Viktor’s hip, rolling him back to lay supine, and turns his attention to the swimsuit he’s desperate to tug off.

“Wait,” Viktor says, propping himself up on one elbow.

Yuuri turns to him in silent questioning, fixing the skew of his glasses as he does so. Viktor reaches out and pushes his fringe up and off his forehead.

“Perfect,” he says after licking the top row of his own teeth.

He says it again later when Yuuri is wiping his puffy mouth with the back of his hand.

* * *

 

During public practice, Yuuri finally feels the calm confidence he’s been chasing since the start of the season. Finally, he can visualize the things he wants right in front of him, there for the taking: a win, a gold medal, ultimate redemption, and ( _most importantly,_ he finds,) Viktor’s devotion. When Chris comes over during a mid-morning break to say hello and shuffle Viktor off to a quiet corner to talk, Yuuri expects the pangs of jealousy to hit him again. But Viktor flashes a knowing smile over his shoulder as they move away, and Yuuri can’t help but smile back. The jealousy never comes.

But the need to find Phichit does.

The Thai skater hooks his arm with Yuuri’s as they huddle close in the third row of spectator seats. Yuuri apologizes again for missing their night out and tells him about his conversation with Viktor. (He omits what came after, but he’s fairly sure his face is giving him away because Phichit is wearing _that_ smirk.)

“So... he wants to stay _and_ you’re exclusive,” Phichit recaps.

Yuuri nods. “Yeah.”

“Wow. _Wow._ You’re in an _actual_ relationship.And with none other than Viktor Nikiforov, the man you’ve idolized since childhood” the younger skater sighs dreamily. “It’s like the plot of some awesomely terrible made-for-TV movie, Yuuri.”

Yuuri flinches a little because it _does_ seem unbelievable. But more than that, neither he nor Viktor had officially called their arrangement a relationship even though it does feel like one, and hearing Phichit use that particular word has Yuuri’s mind doing acrobatics.

_Can I call it that? Is that okay? Do we need a label?  What does Viktor think? How do I even **ask**  him?_

“But are you sure you’re okay with everything, Yuuri?” Phichit asks. “Yesterday you were being so angsty about whether or not it was all right to have him stay. His career and all that.”

Yuuri slides down into the plastic chair and brings his feet up to the seat to press his forehead to his knees. “I think so? It’s like you both said. -- it’s not really my decision. And you know me. I doubt and second-guess everything.”

“Oh yes, I know _very_ well,” Phichit nods.

“Viktor is amazingly kind, and he’s only ever done his best for me,” Yuuri continues. “So I...I think I should honor that. I want to believe in something for once in my life. I want to believe in what he says.”

“And what about getting hurt?” Phichit presses. “You were worried about that, too. What if you regret it?”

“Last night, I started thinking that maybe hurt isn’t always a bad thing. Maybe sometimes, it’s a proof of something. It means you took a risk, you _tried_. And even if I get hurt, I don’t think I’ll regret it. I’ll be sad, probably. But I don’t think I’ll ever wish it’d never happened.”

A gloved hand comes to rest atop Yuuri’s head. “Well, I’m happy if you’re happy, Yuuri. And no matter what happens, I’ll support you,” Phichit says quietly. “So, congratulations.”

Yuuri lifts his head to smile at his best friend. “Thanks, Phichit,” he says just as Viktor returns and waves him over to get back on the ice.

Practice runs until just before lunch. Yuuri spends the rest of it running through his step sequences and spins, as Viktor has prohibited all jumps.

“I don’t want you to get into your own head over your quads, especially the flip. So I’m begging you to please _listen_ to your coach for once. Let’s just be confident in your abilities. I know you can do it,” Viktor had instructed as Yuuri removed his skate guard after the break.

When he comes off the ice at the end of the session, Viktor asks him what he wants to do with the rest of his day. He suggests rest, but Yuuri shakes his head and tells Viktor he wants to go sightseeing. Viktor obliges, happily.

“I know I said you could leave it to me, but do you anything in particular in mind, Yuuri?” Viktor asks as they head back to the hotel so that Yuuri can shower and change.

“You’re the one who’s been here before. The last time we went on a date, I had to plan everything. It’s your turn to decide,” Yuuri says.

Viktor doesn’t disappoint. He drags Yuuri all over the city to take in the sights and sample the cuisine (though they split everything for the sake of Yuuri’s midsection). It’s the most fun Yuuri can remember having in forever and he finds himself wishing they could be together like this always -- laughing, casually touching each others’ arms, sneaking innocent kisses at unexpected moments. It’s domestic and peaceful and warm.

But much as he wishes it would never end, Yuuri’s feet start to protest after the tenth store they stop at along the way and he asks to take a break. As he sits heavily on a bench in the middle of a plaza, Viktor turns circles and babbles away happily; Yuuri looks on with a contented smile from his spot among a rainbow of paper shopping bags. This man is everything, and Yuuri wonders if he will ever be able to express that sentiment to Viktor.

 _If only there was something I could give him. A gift, or...,_ he thinks offhandedly as he scans the shops around the perimeter of the plaza. Nothing stands out.

His preoccupation makes him sloppy, though. Later, after Viktor puts him through the long process of suit shopping for “something more worthy of the most beautiful skater in the world than that ugly old thing you always wear,” Yuuri realizes he’s missing a bag from a nut shop they’d visited after lunch. Viktor insists it’s not a big deal, but the guilt of wasting Viktor’s money is heavy on his shoulders and Yuuri insists on backtracking. As the sun sets and every stop turns up nothing, Yuuri becomes increasingly frustrated.

And then, when Viktor makes his own frustration known, Yuuri snaps at him and they fall into an awkward silence as they make their way back across the city, having given up.

Yuuri’s mind races. Already, they’re fighting over trivial things, and why did he think this would ever work? Of _course_ it won’t. They’re leagues apart after all, and why would Viktor stick around for someone as irritable and gloomy as Yuuri when he could have anyone at all?

_No. Stop assuming the worst. You decided to believe in him._

So Yuuri extends the olive branch as they stroll side-by-side through a Christmas market. He makes himself make conversation, however forced, and is pleased when Viktor’s mood softens in response. They chat about Christmas and Viktor’s upcoming birthday, and this moves Yuuri to renew his search for something he could gift to his coach.

And then he finds his answer in a jewelry store: a pair of simple gold rings that cost more than any non-essential Yuuri has ever bought in his life. He’s not a cheapskate per se; he’s frugal out of necessity. Still, he doesn’t feel the usual pang of guilt when he tucks his credit card into the thin black folder and slides it across the counter.

 _Because it’s almost your birthday. And Christmas. They’re for good luck. It’s an apology. It’s partial payment for your time. A way of thanking you,_ Yuuri rationalizes as he peels the leather glove from Viktor’s right hand.

But as Viktor slips the second ring onto his finger, Yuuri can’t help but recall their reunion at the airport just weeks earlier. Viktor had kissed that very same hand and called Yuuri’s request to stay together until retirement something akin to a marriage proposal.

His excuses for these rings, he realizes, are just that: excuses. And not a single one of them is honest.

_Because you’re mine, even if it’s only for now, and I want you to know it._

* * *

 

The evening had taken a series of unexpected turns. First, Yuuri somehow ended up at dinner with four of his fellow competitors, plus his sister and ballet teacher. Then, there was the revelation that Yuuri had _completely_ gone off the deep-end at the banquet in Sochi. A tie wrapped around his head. No pants. Champagne. Dance battles with Viktor and Yurio. Even pole dancing (which honestly shocked him because he’d only ever shyly observed Phichit’s classes back in Detroit) with Chris, which suddenly made Viktor’s odd retort the previous night make a lot more sense. But the most unexpected twist was when, after a wild and hasty assumption made by Phichit, Viktor had announced to everyone at dinner that the rings they wore were engagement rings.

It wasn’t that Yuuri minded. He didn’t. At all.

 _Maybe deep down, that was my intention, actually,_ Yuuri thinks, marveling at the depths of his own possessiveness.

But for _Viktor --_ a known Cassanova who Yuuri had known personally for less than a year and intimately for even less time that that -- to _declare_ that they would be married like it was the most logical thing in the world... well, it was like Phichit had said. It was the stuff of movies -- hard to believe.

Even though Yuuri knows he _said_ he wanted to believe in Viktor, saying and doing are two entirely separate things, especially when it comes to something as huge as this. He can’t help but wonder if it was just some frivolous joke -- a way to shock the competition, to throw them off their games. Viktor loved to surprise others, after all. Or maybe it was just some weird motivational tactic for Yuuri. But all that speculation is for nothing because Yuuri can’t bring himself to ask.

On the way back to the hotel, with their hands intertwined, Viktor doesn’t speak; he instead hums aloud a chipper tune. In the elevator, his hums quiet. Inside their room, he trades all humming for calling Yuuri’s name in a liquid drawl as he backs the Japanese skater up against a wall. With both hands placed flat against the wall by Yuuri’s head and their hips pressed together, Viktor traps him there. Yuuri’s mind empties completely, and he’s grateful.

He drops the shopping bags to the ground and circles his arms around his coach’s elegant neck. Letting the wall support his weight, Yuuri’s slips his eyes shut as his tips his chin up to meet Viktor’s waiting mouth. At the taller man’s urging, he parts his lips and savors the taste of Viktor’s tongue sliding against his own.

“I can’t believe you forgot me,” Viktor whispers hoarsely when they part. “I may never recover from the shock.”

“It’s not like I _meant_ to,” Yuuri replies, fingering the short hair at the nape of Viktor’s neck.

“But you _did,”_ Viktor whines. He nips at Yuuri’s lips, then licks a brief kiss into them. “You forgot all about approaching me.” Kiss. “And our dance.” Kiss. “And asking me to be your coach.” Kiss. “No wonder you were so cold. You must have been so confused when I showed up at Yuutopia.” Kiss.

_Wait, what?_

Yuuri puts a hand on Viktor’s chest and pushes gently, forcing Viktor to take a half step back so he can see the Russian’s face clearly. “I _asked_ you to be my coach?”

Viktor smirks. “You invited me to Japan. Said if you won the dance battle, you wanted me to be your coach.”

“I _wha--_ wait. _Wait._ I said something that stupid and you _agreed?”_ Yuuri asks incredulously.

“You were _very_ charming,” Viktor chuckles. “And it wasn’t stupid. You were such a breath of fresh air. I couldn’t help but be interested. But then you just disappeared.” He makes a motion like smoke poofing, like a bit of magic, with his free hand.

Yuuri stares at the man in front of him, mouth open. Viktor takes his hand and, pulling him off the wall, leads him to the beds they pushed together the night before. They sit side by side, knees turning inward and brushing up against each other. Viktor brings Yuuri’s hand into his lap.

“For a whole season, I wondered where you’d gone and why you weren’t at Worlds with me. I was heartbroken, you know. But then there you were in a video and I _had_ to meet you again.”

“But _why?”_ Yuuri balks.

“Because I was lacking inspiration. After that last season, I didn’t know what to do. I felt so empty. But you showed up again from out of nowhere, the man who had walked up to me at a banquet, held me, and then challenged me. And you skated _my_ gold-medal program so beautifully. I think you skated with more emotion that I did. And I swore, it was like you were calling me.”

Yuuri feels like he’s listening to Viktor from miles away. It doesn’t seem real.

“Don’t you see, Yuuri? I kept our promise.” Viktor says lowly, leaning in. “You won, so I went to you.”

Yuuri melts into Viktor as the Russian presses their mouths together again. When they pull apart, Yuuri bumps his forehead to Viktor’s shoulder.

“I wish I could remember,” he says quietly. “I must have hurt you a lot without realizing it.”

Viktor chuckles again. “It’s as you said, it’s not like you meant to. It’s water under the bridge, now. And anyway,” he continues, running a thumb over the gold band on Yuuri’s right fourth finger, “you’ve already made it up to me.”

Yuuri lifts his head to look down at their hands, then back up at Viktor’s warm face. His blue eyes are liquid pools, inviting and calm. His lips are curled up just so, like another happy hum is right on his lips, waiting.

“When you said these were engagement rings...,” Yuuri starts, “you were _serious_.” It’s not a question.

“I’ve been hooked on you for a long time now, Yuuri,” Viktor purrs, cupping his cheek. “I’ve never felt like this about anyone.”

Tears well up in Yuuri’s eyes; he snatches his hands away from Viktor and uses the backs to scrub them away before they can spill down his cheeks.

“Is.. am I-- Are you really okay? Wi-with m _e_?” he asks, his breath catching after every couple words.

“It _has_ to be you,” Viktor says, smoothing his thumb along Yuuri’s cheek bone.

Yuuri drops his hands and stares into the older skater’s eyes dumbly. Viktor guides him into another kiss.

It starts out slow, a smile pressed into another smile, Yuuri’s wet cheeks pressed against Viktor’s warm ones. But when the gravity of what Viktor is saying finally hits him fully, Yuuri is suddenly frenetic; energy surges through him, makes him desperate like he has to confirm that he’s not in the middle of some elaborate fantasy. He laps wantonly at Viktor’s mouth until the Russian opens for him, allowing Yuuri to deepen the kiss. When it comes to Viktor, Yuuri never feels in control of his body. He’s grappling at the back of his neck, then climbing into his lap, then pushing him back onto the bed and straddling his hips, all without any real thought or forewarning. And Viktor bends to his every whim.

The older man runs his hands over Yuuri’s chest, then slips them under the lapels of his coat to push it off his shoulders. Yuuri shimmies out of it, unwinds his scarf, and pull off his sweater. When he’s freed of his layers, he moves over Viktor and dips his head. The older man carefully removes his glasses for him and sets them aside on the bedside table before finding Yuuri’s mouth eagerly.

Yuuri is a whirlwind. He stuffs his hands up Viktor’s sweater and explores the muscles there, tracing each rib and the thin ditches where muscles join under porcelain skin. 

Viktor throws an arm over his eyes and groans, “Let me take off my coat, too."

Yuuri sits back to allow Viktor just enough room to work his coat off. “This too,” he says, tugging the sweater up to reveal his abs. Viktor obeys, pulling it up and over his head, and discards it on the floor next to his coat and Yuuri’s garments.

With Viktor settled back on the mattress, Yuuri is free to let his hands and mouth roam once more. There is no rhyme or reason to the places he goes. A nipple. A collar bone. An ear. Mouth. Stomach. Viktor worms around under him, alternating between sharp gasps and exhaling Yuuri’s name whenever Yuuri switches his focus to a different location.

Eventually, Yuuri needs more. His mind is buzzing, and his groin is aching. When he can’t take the strain in his pants for a moment longer, he works them off as quickly as he can before going for Viktor’s belt.

“Yuuri, wait,” Viktor says, grabbing his forearm.

“Can’t wait. Need you,” he replies disjointedly, shaking Viktor’s hand off.

“No, really, please-- ah! Wait, wait. Yuuri, _wait!”_

Yuuri’s hand come to a stand still and his eyes fly up until they meet piercing blue. Immediately, he can only think of the worst reason for Viktor to ask him to stop.

_He doesn’t want this after all._

“But I want you to make me yours,” Yuuri blurts.

Viktor’s eyes widen.

_See?_

“You... don’t want me?” Yuuri asks, sitting back on his knees.

“I do!” Viktor protests without hesitation. He sits up, settles his hands on Yuuri’s exposed hip bones and leans his forehead into Yuuri’s jawline. “God, Yuuri. You have no idea how badly I do. But it’s late, and you have to skate tomorrow.”

“So?” Yuuri asks, testy.

“So, I want us to take our time. I want to do this properly,” Viktor explains. “You spent almost the whole day on your feet. You need to rest. If...if we do this now and rush so you can get enough sleep, you might get hurt, and I’d never forgive myself.”

“I won’t--”

Viktor silences the Japanese man with a slender finger on his lips. “It also might make skating uncomfortable, and I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize your program. Not when you’ve come this far.”

Yuuri huffs. It makes sense, and Viktor, while so much more than a coach to Yuuri, _is_ his coach nonetheless. “I guess.”

“I’ll make it worth the wait,” Viktor says into his ear in a low, sultry whisper. “I promise.”

Lightning zips down Yuuri’s spine. “A-alright,” he gulps, trying to ignore the throbbing in his nether region.

Viktor kisses the bend of his jaw under his ear, then shifts him to the side to stand. Yuuri pulls the covers around him to hide his erection.

“I’m going to take a quick shower,” Viktor says as he gathers their clothing from the floor. He tosses Yuuri’s underpants back at him. “You brush your teeth and get ready for bed. I’ll join you just as soon as I’m done.”

When Viktor deposits their clothing into his open suitcase and disappears into the bathroom, Yuuri crawls off the bed with a sigh. He slips his boxers back over his legs before plodding after Viktor into the bathroom to find his toothbrush.

His desire -- his _eros_ \-- settles to a slow simmer under his skin. He decides he’ll use this heat to melt the ice during his short program tomorrow.

* * *

He touched the ice.

His quad flip got enough rotations but he touched the ice. The rest of his program was flawless. He felt desire pulse through his body -- desire to captivate the audience, desire to win the Grand Prix series, desire to seduce the tall Russian who stood behind the boards and never took his eyes off Yuuri. But he touched the ice. It was just a brief skimming of fingertips against a cold gleam of white, not lasting even a full second, but he touched the ice.

He touched the ice trying to land the one component that meant the most to him because it was his homage to the man who brought him here. The man whose reputation he’s tarnishing by _touching the goddamn ice._

He choked. It’s Sochi and Nationals all over again. He always chokes when it really counts.

_Fucking typical._

The worst part is that Viktor says nothing. In the kiss and cry, they sit and wait together in complete silence. Viktor pulls Yuuri close by the shoulder, but when the score rolls in, he offers no words, supportive or otherwise. He just sits there, staring forward with his hand to his mouth until Phichit takes his mark. (Phichit is outstanding.)

 _Say something,_ Yuuri pleads silently as they move backstage after Yurio kicks them off the bench. _Anything. Scold me if you want, but just say something, **please**._

But as soon as reporters surround Yuuri, bombarding him with questions that seem to completely ignore the fact that he’s ruined everything, Viktor goes missing. Yuuri excuses himself and goes in search of his coach only to find him just as it’s announced that Yurio has broken Viktor’s short program world record.

If only he hadn’t. Then he wouldn’t have to see the distance in Viktor’s eyes. Then he wouldn’t have to feel his heart break into a hundred million shards. Then the doubt might stay hidden instead of encroaching on Yuuri’s psyche.

Everyone is amazing, even JJ, whose program fell apart much like Yuuri’s had in Sochi. But JJ is different; he doesn’t break down. He finishes his skate with all the confidence he’d had in Moscow and greets his fans with a smile. He doesn’t get stuck with regret for taking on such a challenging program.

Yuuri doesn’t want to regret his own challenges, either.

But Viktor has still said nothing about his failed flip or his fourth place finish for the day, and Yuuri _does_ wonder if he should have stuck to a more consistent final jump after all. With JJ’s flub, maybe Yuuri could have landed something else and secured a top three placement.

 _Maybe Viktor is thinking the same thing,_ he thinks as he stands in an isolated corner backstage after the usual media circus has died out _. From the beginning, he wasn’t completely on board with me swapping in the flip for both programs._

_“Oi.”_

Yuuri turns his head to see the youngest member of Team Russia standing to the side, his hands stuffed into his red and blue team jacket.

“Yurio.”

“Why are you spacing out over here on your own? If you’re going to cry again, the bathroom is over that way,” the teen sneers, jamming a thumb over his shoulder.

Yuuri smiles a bit and shakes his head. “Just waiting for Viktor,” he says, tipping his chin up to where Viktor stands, chatting with a few of Yuuri’s small-time sponsors. “Congratulations, by the way, on finishing first today. And the world record, of course. You were unreal.”

“Damn right I was,” Yurio grins. “Leagues better than you and your stupid coach.”

Yuuri slips his hands into his own jacket’s pockets and squares his shoulders. He wishes he had Yurio’s confidence. Or at least he wishes he had the confidence he felt yesterday during practice. But confidence or no, his skin prickles at implied insult tossed Viktor’s way.

“It would have been interesting how it would have played out if Viktor had been on the ice today,” Yuuri shrugs. “I mean, you had to be in top form to surpass his record. Maybe it would have been harder if he’d been out there to defend it.”

Yurio clicks his tongue against his teeth in apparent disgust. “Not like it matters. That annoying old man is washed up. If he doesn’t get back on the ice before the season is through, he’s done. I’d skate circles around him the same way I skate circles around you and everyone else here.”

Yuuri opens his mouth to retort, but the words disintegrate from the tip of his tongue.

“He’s finished,” Yurio reiterates with a smirk, “and it’s your fault. He’ll never be the skater he was before he ran off to play house with you.”

Yuuri’s fists ball up so tightly that he can feel his nails dig into the soft flesh of his palms and his arms tremble from the strain. Generally, Yuuri likes the younger Russian skater, but sometimes...

 _He might be right,_ an inner voice concedes.

Yuuri thinks back to Viktor sitting next to him in the stands while they watched the others perform. How his eyes tracked each skater with a focused interest. How he was obviously making mental notes about the different styles and strengths of the other five competitors like he was preparing a strategy for beating them. (How he’d praised each one of them while never once commenting on Yuuri’s performance.)

Viktor isn’t a bad person.

 _In fact,_ Yuuri thinks, _he’s a lot more genuine than I would have ever expected._

And that’s what makes this so painful. When Viktor told Yuuri he wanted to stay, he meant it. When he told the other skaters that their rings were an engagement, he meant it. But he also promised Yuuri he’d go back to the ice if he ever had even an inkling to do so, and Yuuri believes he meant that too.

So when he saw the look in Viktor’ eyes as Yurio broke his record, and heard the analytical comments he made about the others’ programs, Yuuri knew what needed to happen next. He _knew._ He’d just been trying not to think about it.

But here is this Russian punk, forcing him to do just that, and Yuuri has no comeback.

From the other side of the room, Yuuri hears his name ring out over the bustle of the crowd. Viktor is walking toward him, waving one hand over his head. “I’m all finished here. Are you ready to go? Oh, Yurio! Congratulations! I was so surprised!”

“Whatever,” Yurio tsks before pivoting on his feet to set off in the direction where Yakov and Liliana are waiting. “Good luck on the free skate, Katsudon. You’re gonna need it,” he calls over his shoulder.

“He breaks one measly world record and he’s already that fired up, huh? How cute,” Viktor grins, watching the teenager’s narrow frame disappear into the throng of people milling about. He turns to look down at Yuuri. “So. Ready?”

“I guess so," Yuuri lies.

* * *

 

Viktor babbles on about his conversation with Yuuri’s sponsors -- something about a new line of clothing and an upcoming photo shoot -- all the way back to the hotel. Yuuri tries his best to listen, but the rock in his chest is too heavy to ignore.

The sun is setting when they reach the lobby of their hotel. A few straggling reporters ambush the pair as they make their way to the bank of elevators. Some ask about Yuuri’s plans for the free program, but most of them gush about how wonderful his short program was. (He wonders if they actually _watched_ him. Obviously not.)

He wants to be gracious, and he’s been making an effort to be more personable in his interviews, so he tries his best to hold his own. But mostly, even though he knows he’s right, he’s still dreading what he is about to do. Procrastination is not something Yuuri is often guilty of, but it’s what he wants to do more than anything right now. So he takes question after question in an attempt to put off ascending to their room.

Eventually, it’s Viktor who shuffles Yuuri off toward a waiting carriage.

“I’m terribly sorry to cut in,” the Russian skater says, tugging at Yuuri’s wrist, “but we have prior engagements, so I’ll have to steal him away now.”

A barrage of new questions follow. Where are they going? Is it true they’ve started dating? What do their matching rings mean? Viktor is uncharacteristically unresponsive, but when they step onto the elevator, the Russian winks at them before punching the number of their floor followed by the button that forces the doors closed. One of the reporters wolf whistles and the others laugh. Yuuri swallows hard.

When they slip inside their room, Viktor takes Yuuri’s bag and jacket and stores them away before shrugging out of his own waistcoat. Satisfied with the hang of their garments, he turns to Yuuri, who has been watching without seeing, and runs a finger along his jaw.

“Where are you?” he asks.

Yuuri blinks. “What do you mean?”

“You look like you’re a million miles away,” Viktor says.

“Oh. Yeah. Maybe? I’m just... thinking a lot.”

Viktor smirks and bends his head to brush his lips along the outer shell of Yuuri’s ear. “No need to be nervous. I told you the wait would be worth it, and I intend to live up to my word.”

_If only that were it._

Still, Yuuri feels a dull ache in his chest that spreads outward and downward. It’d be so easy to just forget everything and get lost in the tide. To envelope himself in firm arms and hot breaths and pliant skin. To give himself over completely without sparing a thought for everything he will be taking from Viktor by doing so.

 _No. Do this now, or you won’t do it at all,_ he orders himself.

Wetting his upper lip with the flat of his tongue, Yuuri puts a hand to Viktor’s chest and gently pushes him back. “Before that,” he begins, “I... I want to talk to you about something. There are some things I need to tell you.”

The puzzlement in Viktor’s eyes are apparent; Yuuri offers a thin smile in return, a poor attempt at reassurance.

“Okay,” Viktor says after a moment. “I’m listening.”

“I um... I need a shower,” Yuuri says dumbly.

_Still procrastinating. Coward._

The taller man laughs. “Is that all?”

“No,” Yuuri coughs. “That’s not it. But I want to shower first. Before we talk. If that’s okay.”

“Of course,” Viktor says before flashing a wicked smile. “Should I keep you company? I need to rinse off, too.”

“No!” Yuuri says, putting both palms up. The awkward pitch of his voice isn’t lost on Viktor. The Russian lifts his brows, questioning. “I... I’ll be in and out. You usually take a while, right?”

Viktor holds his gaze for a beat but ultimately shrugs. “I’ll hop in after you’re done, then.”

Yuuri nods aggressively and moves away to pull a fresh pair of sweats and underpants from his suitcase. Viktor is already peeling his suit off piece by piece when Yuuri closes the bathroom door. (Yuuri very much wishes he could stay to watch. Then he scolds himself for even thinking it.)

In the shower, Yuuri stands directly under the spray and leans his head into the tile wall. It’s cool against his skin, a sharp contrast to the scalding water that splashes over his shoulders and back.

_What am I doing?_

He’d wanted to prolong this when he was in the lobby, but now that they’re in the room, drawing this out seems like torture. Yet, here he is, avoiding. And when he’s done, he will have to wait for Viktor to finish _his_ shower. It _is_ torture-- torture of his own making.

He deserves it, though. He’s put Viktor in a terrible position.

Viktor had promised Yuuri he’d consider going back to the ice if he ever thought he might want to. But he’d made that promise _before_ the rings, _before_ any talk of marriage, _before_ Viktor told him that it had to be Yuuri. Yuuri doesn’t doubt that Viktor was sincere, but all of that would make keeping his initial vow hard, wouldn’t it? It gives him only one of two choices: either deny himself or deny Yuuri.

Like Yuuri told Phichit, Viktor was too kind for his own good.

 _He’s never done anything to intentionally hurt me, and he never would. Even if it means giving up something so important,_ Yuuri thinks, mournfully. _But he **wants** to go back. I saw it, plain as day. And if he doesn’t do it now, he may miss his chance completely._

Yuuri loves Viktor. That’s why Yuuri doesn’t want to be the reason for Viktor’s regret. Once, he thought to himself that he didn’t mind being hated as the man who took Viktor from the world. But he can’t handle the thought of being resented as the man who took skating from Viktor.

And that’s why he needs to help Viktor keep his promise.

He’d wavered in his resolve recently, but after his embarrassing debut at this year’s Final, it’s an easy choice to make. He’ll set Viktor free by retiring after the competition. It’s time. It’s right.

Yuuri scrubs his body and shampoos his hair haphazardly, mostly to give the appearance that he really had wanted to shower. He runs the hotel’s blow dryer over his head a few times and slips into his loungewear before opening the door.

“Your turn,” he says.

Viktor, down to his dress shirt, briefs, and black calf-high socks, stands from the edge of the bed where he was scrolling through something on his phone. He passes Yuuri just outside the doorway and presses a brief kiss to the Japanese man’s temple.

“I’ll try not to take too long,” he muses before disappearing behind the door.

But he does.

Or maybe it just seems like he does because Yuuri feels like he’s standing on a cliff, about to jump, and the anticipation of what awaits him at the bottom is overwhelming.

Yuuri perches on the edge of his bed, facing the large window that looks out over the city, and scrolls through his Instagram feed. Melodic humming drifts from the other room over the white noise of the running water and the room’s heater. It’s endearing, and Yuuri both loves it and hates it because this taste of domesticity makes his heart glitch.

 _You_ _**have**_ _to do it. For his sake._

When Viktor emerges in his white robe, skin shining and hair shimmering silver with droplets of water, Yuuri readies himself with fists balled into his thighs and a deep breath in.

 _This is it. This is the end,_ he tells himself _._

And then he tells Viktor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Next time:**  
>  “Do you not want me anymore?”
> 
> “No! I--”
> 
> “Is this what you do, Yuuri?” Viktor continues, voice biting. “You say pretty things and give just enough of a taste to hook your prey before snatching it all away? ”
> 
>  _Like Sochi?_  
>  \--
> 
> WE HAVE ARRIVED, MY DUDES.
> 
> So, of course, I have to end it here. This is a slow burn fic; you have to be patient and wait until the next chapter for the fallout. Sorry. ○|￣|＿
> 
> Regarding the smut in this chapter: I headcanon that while with past partners Viktor was usually the one who took the lead in bed, he gets off on letting Yuuri take control/do as he pleases, even if ( _especially_ if?) it means Yuuri gets a little rough. Of course he's happy to be in the driver's seat too, but Viktor has spent his whole life carefully controlling every part of his persona and career; he finds it really freeing (and super hot) to let Yuuri have his way (because he trusts Yuuri so implicitly). So that’s where that’s coming from. Also, pushing Yuuri’s hair back was an intentional nod to the dream he had at the beginning of Ch. 4. Like me, Viktor lives for that slicked back hair + glasses combo.
> 
> Want some mood music for this chapter? I basically played [this song](https://youtu.be/TImIq6ESr_U) on repeat while I wrote it. 
> 
> Anyway, my plans look like they’re going to be delayed for a bit longer, which I guess is good news for my readers because it means updates for the final two chapters should happen at the usual rate.
> 
> Come find me over on [tumblr](http://www.hanarezu-ni.tumblr.com%22), where I reblog YOI everything, my art, and talk about this fic and the upcoming non-linear memory loss AU I’ve got planned (which already has two chapters ready to go and has caused me significant mental anguish due to ALL THE ANGST).


	8. Missteps (Viktor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sting of hot tears pricks at Viktor’s eyes; he silently wonders if this new tendency to cry is Yuuri’s doing or his influence. He tries to blink them back, but Yuuri reaches out and runs his thumb along Viktor’s lower lid, collecting each drop.
> 
> “I made you angry again,” Yuuri says softly, his lips tugged down at the corners.
> 
> “No,” Viktor chokes. “I just... I want to give you everything, Yuuri. But what you’re asking for...I don’t know if I can give that to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Viktor's tears are everyone's tears. 
> 
> Again, I found it necessary to overlap a little with some on-screen material, but hopefully not too much.

It’s not that Viktor _never_ cries, it’s just that he never cries in front of anyone. Not even in front of Yakov, not even once. He’s not like Yuuri, who cries openly and frequently, whose tears are so unapologetically honest that it sometimes makes him wish he _could_ be like Yuuri. Viktor prefers to wait until he can cry alone, quietly curled into his dog, where no one can brush his tears off as “the usual dramatics” or tell him that they’re unwarranted because he lives a charmed life and what does he really have to cry about, anyway?

But these tears... they don’t wait for Viktor. (And that’s just as well, because there’s nowhere he can really go, and Makkachin is on the other side of the world.) These tears spring up without warning and cling to his lashes like dew drops on the grass in the early morning. The drip down his face and splash onto his balled-up hands and bare knees like rain. They are the precursor to a storm what Viktor isn’t sure he’s going to be able to weather. But it’s coming anyway: anger and betrayal and a deep, sudden sense of loss, all colliding into each other with loud claps of thunder that rattle his heart and deafen the parts of his brain that might be more levelheaded.

Viktor has always known that intense emotions set him into motion -- it’s the thing that makes him such a force on the ice. Still, the way he suddenly flies toward Yuuri and pushes him back onto the bed surprises even himself. A pang of guilt hits him when he sees the way Yuuri’s eyes widen with shock, but it’s short lived because the anger is suffocating everything else.

“You keep talking about my comeback even though you’re going to retire,” he shouts as he topples Yuuri backward onto the mattress. Viktor places one knee on the edge of the bed between Yuuri’s legs and leans over him with one hand braced on the bed and the other still digging into the Japanese man’s shoulder. “Is it because of what happened today? Because you touched the ice on your flip? You’re overthinking--”

“That’s not it! ” Yuuri interrupts sharply as he props himself up in a half sit with his elbows. “I decided to make this my last season a while ago. So you don’t have to worry--”

_I thought we were going to spend our lives together. I’m supposed to worry about you, and you aren’t supposed to make these kinds of decisions without talking to me._

“Don’t you _dare_ tell me one more time not to worry about you. It’s insulting,” Viktor spits.

Yuuri tips his chin downward, letting his lashes obscure his gaze. Yuuri, who is supposed to be his world. Yuuri, who is the source of everything good in Viktor’s life. Yuuri, who does not respond when Viktor is desperate for an answer. His silence punches the air out of Viktor harder than any turn of phrase could.

“Before, you told me to stay beside you but now you’re telling me to go,” Viktor says in a harsh whisper. “Do you not want me anymore?”

“No! I--”

“Is this what you do, Yuuri?” Viktor continues, voice biting. “You say pretty things and give just enough of a taste to hook your prey before snatching it all away? ”

_Like Sochi?_

He immediately regrets his private addition; it’s not fair and it’s mean-spirited, he knows. Yuuri hadn’t led him on and then disappeared on intentionally. He _knows._ He didn’t before, but he does now. Still, that doesn’t mean it hadn’t hurt or that Viktor hadn’t felt abandoned then, just like he’s feeling now. It’s a cruel form of deja vu and it does nothing to calm his rage.

Viktor’s eyes bore into Yuuri’s until the other man’s bottom lip starts to tremble. “No,” the younger skater chokes. “No. That’s not...I didn’t mean...”

His reaction causes Viktor to falter. It’s not fair of Yuuri to cry now. It’s _not_. When Yuuri cries, Viktor wants to fix it no matter how awkwardly, wants to reassure him that everything will be fine. But everything's _not_ fine; Viktor’s own tears are still leaking down his face, dropping and staining Yuuri’s sweats with dark spots, and how can he handle both of their hurt at once?

He _can_ ’ _t,_ and trying zaps him of the energy he needs to maintain the intensity of his current mood.

The muscles in his shoulders relax and the storm inside of him quiets. With a long exhale, Viktor lowers himself, forcing Yuuri onto his back, until he’s lying chest to chest with the Japanese man. He nestles his head into the hollow of Yuuri’s neck, willing his eyes to dry. Yuuri’s arms wrap around his back easily; Viktor wishes the robe he’s wrapped in weren’t so plush so that he might feel Yuuri’s touch more concretely.

“Yuuri,” he mumbles, miserable. “I don’t understand you.”

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri sniffs.

Viktor sighs heavily. Apologizing is Yuuri’s go-to. It’s a throwaway, and it’s not what Viktor needs or wants to hear right now.

“Just _talk_ to me, Yuuri. _Please,”_ Viktor pleads, curling into himself on Yuuri’s chest.

“I just...,” Yuuri starts before cutting himself off and changing topics. “This season has been like a dream _._ No matter what happens, I’m glad you came to coach me.” He reaches up and pushes his fingers into Viktor’s hair and drags them along the scalp.

“Then why retire at all?” Viktor asks. “We could do it again, and again...” The hand in his hair feels so wonderful and intimate and Viktor struggles against the urge to let this small pleasure soften him any further.

There’s a long silence, like Yuuri is considering his words. When he does speak, the answer is odd. “There are more important things to me now.”

Viktor lifts his head and shifts upward slightly. His damp hair falls forward and curtains his eyes. “I still don’t understand,” he says.

 _More important than me? Than **us**? _ he wants to ask.

Yuuri reaches up and gently tucks a few loose silver strands behind his ears. “You don’t have to,” he says with a solemn smile. “It’s just something I’ve decided for myself.”

It cuts Viktor in half, the contrast of an intimate gesture that draws him in with simple words that shut him out completely.

_Shit. I’m going to cry again._

Viktor turns his head and leans his cheek into Yuuri’s wrist. “I feel terrible,” he mutters aloud to himself.

“Don’t,” Yuuri says. “You’ve been wonderful and have given me so much. I don’t know what I did to deserve this time with you, but I’ll always be grateful for it.” He cups the back of Viktor’s head and brings him down to kiss him softly.

It kills Viktor.

 _Stop. You’re being cruel,_ he sobs privately. But his body reacts of its own accord.

Viktor leans into Yuuri’s kiss and tries to control the trembling that starts the moment Yuuri takes his face in both hands. They move their mouths together in a slow, tender rhythm until Viktor feels lightheaded.

“Yuuri _,”_ he exhales. “ _Yuuri.”_

_Change your mind. Stay with me, I’m begging you._

The Japanese skater hooks one leg over Viktor’s and, after slipping an arm under the Russian’s shoulders, rolls them until Viktor feels Yuuri’s sturdy weight press his back into the mattress. Yuuri reaches out with his free hand and trails his fingertips along Viktor’s neck.

Desperation blooms in Viktor’s chest. Everything feels so raw and so wrong, but Yuuri’s fingers leaving blots of warmth on his skin puts his head in a haze. Yuuri makes him weak. He can’t help it. A pitiful whine slides up and out of his throat as he tilts his head back to expose more skin to Yuuri. Yuuri, in turn, runs the flat of his palm down the length of his exposed jugular, then slips it under the hem of the thick, white robe to smooth over his chest. When his thumb runs over his nipple, Viktor feels his cock twitch beneath Yuuri.

_This isn’t right. Yes. Stop. It’s not fair. It feels so good. Ah! No. Oh, there. Don’t stop. This is wrong._

He’s an unthinking, jumbled mess when Yuuri rises to his knees and reaches for the knot keeping his coach’s robe in place. He makes quick work of it; when the sash comes undone, Yuuri pulls both panels back to unveil Viktor’s naked body. Brown eyes smolder as he surveys the state of Viktor’s member. Viktor takes a sharp breath in.

He wants to say something, but frankly, it just doesn’t matter at the moment. His world is crumbling around him, and having Yuuri do this to him is allowing him to pretend it’s not happening. Maybe he’s also hoping it means that Yuuri has already changed his mind. Or will.

He drapes his arm over his face, burying the bridge of his nose in the crook of his elbow, and snaps his eyes shut. Yuuri drops his head to place lingering kisses along the valley between Viktor’s pectorals, then lower in a straight line to his navel, all the while trailing his hands behind his mouth. He continues downward, then left to his hip, skirting Viktor’s growing erection completely. A moan from Viktor earns him the sensation of Yuuri’s fingers curling over his shaft and a thumb rubbing circles at the tip.

The Russian squirms, choking out meaningless half words. It’s too much and not enough and terrible and wonderful. And then it’s gone: Yuuri’s hands, his lips, and his weight -- all of it. Uncovering his face, Viktor lifts his head to watch Yuuri stand and take a step toward the bedside table.

“What are you doing?” he manages to croak.

Yuuri opens the drawer and removes a small bottle of lube and a foil packet. “Just wait,” he says as he closes the drawer.

“You prepared...?” Viktor blinks when Yuuri returns.

Yuuri flushes as he climbs back on top of Viktor and tosses both items on the bed next to them. Without a proper answer, he picks up right where he’d left off with long pumps to Viktor’s length and wet lips dropped along his inner thighs. Viktor falls back onto the mattress with a stifled moan.

_We should stop. We have to stop._

But he doesn’t say it. He closes his eyes and allows the pleasure of Yuuri stroking and kissing him, and the quivering of his thighs cloud his mind until he’s in a trance, writhing and reacting, but not fully comprehending.

He wants Yuuri to stay with him. (He hears the snap of a cap.)

He wants to be Yuuri’s and for Yuuri to be his. (He feels a wet slickness, then a gentle pressure, at his entrance.)

He _wants_ Yuuri so badly. (A deep, low sigh escapes him at the careful push of a crooked finger inward--)

_But not like this._

“Stop,” Viktor cries, pressing his knees together. Hot tears form in the corners of his eyes, and he squeezes them shut to keep them from falling. “Please stop,” he hiccups.

Yuuri’s hand stills. When he lifts his head, the lust in his expression drains. “Sorry! Did I hurt you?!” he asks, eyes wild with concern.

Viktor shakes his head and pulls his hips back and down toward the mattress to remove himself from around Yuuri’s digit. “No. I just... I can’t...” Viktor trails.

Yuuri’s entire face turns a deep shade of red. “Oh. T-that’s right. You were going to... to _me_ , right?” He swallows. “Sorry, I just thought that either way would be--”

“No,” Viktor says, sliding himself away from Yuuri to sit up on the mattress. He pulls the robe back around him. “No, no. I mean I can’t do... this... right now,” he gestures vaguely between them.

“Hu...huh?” Yuuri stammers, still kneeling.

“I can’t.”

Yuuri’s mouth snaps shut and his expression is strange, like he’s...offended? Viktor can’t make sense of it.

“So you really _didn’t_ want to do it with me yesterday,” Yuuri states flatly.

“What?” Viktor all but shouts. “ _No_ , that’s not what I mean.”

“You stopped me yesterday, too,” Yuuri points out.

“That was different,” Viktor tells him, on the verge of shouting again. “You had a competition to think about.”

“Then why are you stopping me now? You said that we’d--”

Viktor brings a hand to his forehead and closes his eyes. The temper that Yuuri had cooled with his touch flares up inside Viktor again. He drops his hand and fixes his gaze on Yuuri, whose shoulder square in response. “I _know_ what I said, but that was _before..._ before I knew about your _plans._ And now, I just _can’t_ ,” he insists bitterly through clenched teeth.

“But _why?_ ” Yuuri asks again, sharply. “My retirement doesn’t have anything to do with _this.”_ The corners of his mouth turn down. “I... I meant what I said at the airport, and you were okay with it then.”

_‘Please take care of me until I retire.’_

Viktor’s mouth tastes like copper when the realization of Yuuri’s intended meaning back then hits him. He’d been too happy to really consider what Yuuri had meant. Looking back at Yuuri now, his eyes are hot daggers. “So, _what?”_ he shouts. “We just fuck for now, then shake hands and go our separate ways in a few days? That’s what you meant, right?”

“Viktor...” Yuuri says in an attempt to placate him.

“I didn’t realize you were that kind of man,” the Russian spits “Is that _really_ enough for you, Yuuri?”

He almost regrets cursing; it’s not something he makes a habit of doing. But the younger skater looked stunned at the volume of Viktor’s voice, as if he still hasn’t comprehended how upset he is. It pisses Viktor off in a way he can’t ever recall feeling in the past, so the feeling passes.

_How can he make that pitiful face, like he’s confused, like **he’s** the one who’s hurt? **He’s** the one who decided this without me!_

“It...it can be,” Yuuri says quietly after some time. He lowers his head and fists his hands into his sweatpants.

The air is punched from Viktor’s lungs. A dagger plunges into his heart. He feels both so clearly that he clutches at the left side of his robe, right over his chest.

“Well, it’s not enough for _me,_ ” Viktor shoots after he manages a shuddering inhale.

Viktor crawls to the foot of the bed and slips off the mattress. He moves quickly about the room, gathering fresh garments to slip into after he shrugs off his robe. Yuuri’s eyes are on him at every turn, he can feel it. But he doesn’t chance a look back when he grabs his wallet and phone, or when he jams his feet into his shoes and heads for the door.

“Viktor?” Yuuri asks from his spot on the bed, where he remains glued in place.

“Go to sleep. You still have rehearsal in the morning. I need to go out for a bit. I’ll be back late.”

“Viktor!” Yuuri pleads.

His voice is muffled by the closing of the door.

* * *

 

The hotel bar on the ground floor of the hotel is crowded with both guests and customers from off the street. None of Yuuri’s competitors are there, but Viktor recognizes a handful of ISU staff, a few reporters who are rubbing elbows in their off time, and even Celestino, Yuuri’s former coach, chatting loudly with Chris’ coach at the end of the bar over a tumbler of something golden.

 _Too many familiar faces,_ he laments when he feels a hand cup his elbow.

“Good evening, my dear,” Chris grins, green eyes sparkling behind his round frames. “Can I buy you a drink?”

Viktor forces a small smile. “Thanks for coming. Did I interrupt anything?”

“Maybe a little, but he’ll be fine. The anticipation of waiting makes him eager,” Chris winks. Viktor chuckles. “Anyway, you look like you’re not feeling this scene. Might I suggest a little place I know around the corner?”

Viktor nods and is led out of the hotel to a small wine bar a block from the hotel. It’s a cramped space with exposed brick walls, dim lighting and jazz horns that drift lightly above the hum of patrons huddled together over long-stemmed glasses and bottles on small circular tables. They weave their way to an open table at the back. When a waitress passes by to ask after their preferences, Viktor lets Chris take the lead.

“So,” Chris says after the woman has left, “Something monumental must have happened for you to leave your beautiful man alone and call me, instead.”

“Am I that easy to read?” Viktor sighs.

“Aren’t you?”

“Well, _you_ seem to think so. But if that were true, then I wonder why Yuuri never seems to understand me when it’s imperative that he does.”

“Ah,” Chris says, leaning back in his chair. “You had another fight.”

With his elbows on his table, Viktor drops his head into his hands and groans.

“Was it about me again?” Chris muses. “You explained to him properly, didn’t you? That I’m just trying to get you to spill all the naughty details you’ve been denying me so far?”

“It wasn’t about you,” Viktor mutters, “and it wasn’t a fight. Or it was more than a fight?”

“I don’t know what you mean by that, _cherie,”_ Chris says with a tilt of his head.

“He said he’s going to retire after the Final. And then he started talking about me going back to the ice,” Viktor explains, tilting his eyes upward to gauge his friend’s reaction.

Chris’ dark brows lift, but Viktor had expected more shock. “What did he say, exactly?”

“’Let’s end this’.”

Chris exhales long and hard before leaning forward again and resting his stubbly chin in a perfectly manicured hand. “Well, that’s surprising. But not completely unexpected.”

Viktor lifts his head and searches the Swiss skater’s face. “What do you mean?”

“Well, he _did_ disappear after Sochi, as I’m _sure_ you remember,” Chris teases. “When skaters are absent for more than a few months, it usually means they’re at least thinking about it, right? Maybe he’d been planning to retire all along... _before_ you chased after him, I mean. Which would mean _you’re_ the one who pulled him back onto the ice.”

Some invisible object hits Viktor in the chest. Was that true? Had Yuuri been planning to give up on skating altogether before Viktor showed up? The Russian feels suddenly a little sick. Why had it never occurred to him? Viktor had always assumed Yuuri was just taking a break. Skaters did it all the time... right?

“Because he’s _talented,_ and he _asked_ me to, even if he doesn’t remember doing so,” Viktor says, putting himself on defense.

The waitress returns at that moment with a bottle of chardonnay and two glasses. She pops the cork expertly as she explains the year and region of Chris’s choice, and briefly lists its various aromatics when she pours. After she leaves, Chris raises his glass, but Viktor isn’t in a celebrating mood. He downs half the contents without first clinking their stemware together.

“You’re being rude to both me and the wine, Viktor,” Chris complains before swirling his portion, taking a deep whiff in through the nose, then sipping thoughtfully. “And yes, it’s true he’s talented, but do you honestly think he would have asked you to coach him if he hadn’t been filled to the eyes with champagne, Viktor?”

“I--” Viktor starts. Chris doesn’t let him finish.

“Viktor, I love you, but you have always done exactly what you wanted, when you wanted. You didn’t go because he asked you to. You went because you wanted to. I won’t pretend to know _exactly_ why, though I’m sure it was _very_ complex...”

(Viktor doubts Chris actually thinks his reasoning was very complex.)

“...But think about it from his point of view. An untouchable skater randomly shows up while you’re contemplating quitting, and tells you he’s your new coach. So you think, ‘Well, okay,’ because honestly, when will a chance like this ever come around again? And then you have an excellent season, but only because that skater is spending his time coaching you instead of competing.”

“Not just because I’m coaching him or not competing! Yuuri is a top-notch athlete! He could easily surpass me,” Viktor says a little too loudly. A couple at the nearest table glance his way; he ducks his head and polishes off his glass.

“But he’ll never know that for sure because he’s keeping you off the ice,” Chris points out. “And all the while, everyone is whispering about the whole thing. Is he really worth your time? Are you going to play coach forever, or will you come back? If you come back, will you still be in top form? Even I’ve given him some grief over it, I’m sorry to say.”

 _Slam. Slam. Slam._ His chest takes repeated beatings from whatever invisible object had rammed into him earlier.

Chris picks up the bottle and refills Viktor’s glass. “Yuuri cares about you, Viktor. It’s clear to anyone who watches the two of you together. But he’s been shouldering the fates of both his career and yours since you showed up on his doorstep. I don’t imagine that’s an easy weight to bear,” he says softly. “ _Especially_ for him.”

Memories of a parking garage under a skating rink in China flood Viktor’s head: _‘I’m used to being blamed for my own failures, but now I’m worried about my mistakes causing trouble for you!’_

“Oh.”

And then an airport in Fukuoka: _‘Please take care of me until I retire.’_

“Oh, God.”

At Yuutopia, surrounded by friends and family: _‘Won’t you be busy with your own training in Saint Petersburg?’_

“Why didn’t I realize?”

And then their hotel room, painted in the golden light of their bedside tables: _‘You’ve done enough. You don’t have to worry about me anymore.’_

When Yuuri had disappeared after Sochi, Viktor thought his heart had broken. When Yuuri had seemingly rejected him after their kiss in China, Viktor decided that _that_ was true heartbreak. He realized he was wrong again tonight when Yuuri had asked to end things. _Surely_ , that was the real thing.

But all of those were just practice runs because now he actually feels his heart shatter. He’d overlooked _so much._ The thrill of Katsuki Yuuri had blinded him to the reality of Katsuki Yuuri -- namely, that he was a kind, beautiful, anxious mess of a person who would stubbornly carry his troubles alone rather than burden anyone else with them.

“He thinks he’s doing what’s best for me,” Viktor chokes, stunned in his epiphany. “Because he loves me.”

Chris, who had been sitting quietly by (and sipping his wine all the while) as Viktor processed his discovery, smiles gently. “I’d bet it’s something like that.”

“Chris, I have to talk to him. Now.”

Viktor stands so abruptly that his knees hit the table and threaten to spill the wine in his glass. Chris reaches out to steady it before it topples.

“At least finish your glass first.”

Viktor throws back the glass as if it were a shot, much to Chris’ disapproval (which he makes known via the disdain in his sigh). He set the glass down and fishes for his wallet to pay his half. Chris holds a dismissive hand up.

“Put that away. I’ve got this,” he says.

“Sorry,” Viktor frowns, tucking his wallet back into his pocket.

“Don’t be. I’ll just call that lovely man who is waiting for me back in the hotel room and have him help me polish this bottle off. It’ll make my night more fun,” he purrs. “So, go.”

Viktor rounds the table and stands beside Chris’s chair. “Thank you, my dearest friend,” he says before bending to drop a chaste kiss on Chris’ cheek.

“Always, _cherie._ And I won’t tell Yuuri about that kiss just now.”

* * *

 

He’d told Yuuri he’d be back late but a little more than an hour and a half after he’d left, he slides the key card into the door of their shared room and pushes it open. He can’t see a thing; the lamps have been turned off, and the curtains are drawn, preventing any ambient light from the city from sneaking in.

“Yuuri?” Viktor calls gently. There’s no reply.

As he moves inward, Viktor’s eyes adjust. That’s when he can make out the lump of covers on Yuuri’s side of the bed they’d made by pushing their two mattresses together. His face is turned toward the window, his back to Viktor.

“Of all the days to actually listen to your coach,” Viktor quips under his breath.

So he goes about his usual night routine -- brushes his teeth, washes his face and applies his creams, strips down to his underwear and a fresh t-shirt (because sleeping naked seems a bit too inappropriate tonight, even for him) -- and carefully pulls back the sheets on his side of the bed before slipping beneath them.

He settles in and waits for a while, half-expecting Yuuri to shift positions or turn toward him. When neither of those things happen, he reaches out and brushes the round curve of Yuuri’s shoulder with a feather’s kiss of a touch. For a microsecond, Viktor is sure there is a brief pause in the rise and fall of his body as he breathes. He also notes, when the pause passes, that Yuuri’s breathing isn’t as deep as he’d expect from a sleeping athlete.

“Yuuri?” he whispers again. The silence hangs heavy over the bed.

With a frown, the Russian skater rolls away to face the opposite end of the room and closes his eyes.

_We’ll talk in the morning, then._

* * *

 

When he wakes up, Yuuri is gone. There’s a note on Viktor’s bedside table, written in pen on a memo pad embossed in gold with the hotel’s name and logo.

**Skipping open practice. Can’t be around the others yet. Booked time at a local rink instead. Come if you want, but you don’t have to.**

There’s an address written underneath, and no other details.

Viktor sighs and gets out of bed to dress.

* * *

 

From behind the half wall in this small local rink that Yuuri had found and booked by calling Celestino for help (which admittedly stings a bit), Viktor watches Yuuri glide from one of the unfamiliar ice to the other. When he’d arrived, Yuuri had greeted him quietly with a wave of the hand, but otherwise made no indication that he wanted to pick up their conversation from the night before. So Viktor watched over him and offered a snippet of advice here and there, but they passed their time largely in silence.

There is no music, only the sounds of Yuuri’s blades carving lines into the ice and spraying snow. As usual, Yuuri creates the music with his movements. Viktor can hear the piano and strings intertwining, rising and falling. And while it’s a beautiful song, today it is, in Viktor’s mind’s ear, lacking, like the musicians are just going through the motions of playing a song they’d long grown bored with.

Yuuri launches into a quad flip and hits the ice with a sharp smack. He slides across the ice on his hip before rolling onto his hands and knees.

“You didn’t want it badly enough,” Viktor calls out.

Yuuri doesn’t look up but nods and mutters something to himself in Japanese. When he’s upright again, he gears up to try again. He flies from one end of the rink to the other and pushes off into four clear rotations. Again, he falls with a loud, wet slap; the string of Japanese sounds angrier this time.

“Yuuri,” Viktor sighs. “You’ve been at this for almost two hours already and you’ve been completely uninspired this entire time. You’re so much better than this, and we both know it. Maybe you should call it a day. There’s time tomorrow morning before the free skate, still.”

“I just need to concentrate,” Yuuri insists as he wipes the shavings from his pants.

“It won’t do you any good. You’re overdoing it, and you still miss your jumps when you’ve got things on your mind. I think we should talk,” Viktor suggests.

He’d tried to call Yuuri off the ice once or twice already, desperate to try and talk. But Yuuri couldn’t be persuaded. Even when Viktor had first arrived, it was obvious Yuuri had been working himself to the bone. Sweat was already plastering his hair to his forehead and his cheeks were flushed red with strain. He ran through his step sequences and his entire repertoire of jumps endlessly until his entire frame was sagging in complete exhaustion.

“Can you go ask the front desk if I can have another hour?” Yuuri requests.

 _He’s intentionally ignoring me,_ Viktor tells himself with a sigh.

“As your coach, I can’t condone you doing any more than this today,” he says sternly.

“I’ll be fine,” Yuuri snaps before skating off to the opposite end of the rink.

“Yuuri.”

“You don’t have to stay.”

“ _Yuuri!”_

“Just go, Viktor. It’s okay. I’ll see you at the hotel later,” Yuuri insists as he launches into mindless figures on one foot.

Viktor wants so badly to make this right, but Yuuri is making it painfully evident that he won’t get anywhere right now. Viktor can feel his own frustration teeter on the cusp of irritation; it’s so tempting to pick a fight, to try and force Yuuri to open up, but he knows from experience that doing so won’t help the situation. Yuuri cannot be forced open -- the more anyone tries, the further he retreats into himself.

Viktor watches the smaller skater for a moment more but when Yuuri doesn’t even make eye contact, he gathers his things and heads toward the double doors.

“Do as you please, then,” Viktor calls out curtly. “But I’ll never forgive you if you injure yourself right now.”

And then he pulls open one of the doors and passes through, leaving Yuuri to himself.

* * *

 

Viktor has had long days before, both figuratively and literally. He’s had days where training seemed to stretch into eternity, backed to the soundtrack of Yakov’s grumbling and shouting. He’s had days that, due to the magic of airplanes and time zones, lasted upward of thirty hours (and up until he’d met Yuuri, he’d never been particularly good at sleeping on planes). But none of those literal or metaphorical long days felt as long as this day has.

He’d done all he could think of to pass the time after leaving Yuuri. He’d gone to the hotel restaurant for lunch and then had tried to take a late morning nap. The nap was a wash, though, so he’d instead wandered to the arena to peek in on the end of open practice.

The other skaters were fired up and serious. There was little fraternizing between them, even in the final minutes of rehearsal. Yurio scowled his way through jump after jump while Yakov and his ex-wife shouted at him to stretch further, reach higher, bend more severely. Chris’s face was hard and serious─ a far cry from his usual effortless sensuality during actual competition. His coach looked pleased. On the other end of the rink, Phichit radiated confidence as he ran through his steps, arms dancing with joy before him. Otabek betrayed his usual stoic demeanor with the ghost of a smirk as he went through his combination spins. The Canadian skater looked shaken by his disappointing short program, but kept at it while his parents encouraged him from the sidelines.

Viktor’s chest had tightened into a sick knot as he watched them skate around one another. It felt wrong. The rink was missing a skater, and his absence rattled the Russian.

 _Yuuri should be there showing them what a threat he really is. And not just now, but next year, and the year after, and the year after,_ he thought as he turned to sneak out before he was spotted.

Now, he thinks it again as he sits up in his bed and idly thumbs through the various photo albums saved on his phone, pausing briefly whenever he comes across a shot from any of Yuuri looking particularly ethereal on the ice.

 _I want to see you,_ he pleads silently. _Come back._

Viktor hadn’t seen Yuuri since the morning. He’d apparently come back while Viktor had been at the arena, but Viktor only knew it from the skating bag sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed and brief text message sent to his phone that gave no indication as to what mood the Japanese skater was in.

Viktor taps his message app to re-read the text.

 

 **[Yuuri]** Lunch with my sister, then going for a run. Phichit invited me to dinner. Be back in the evening.

 

Viktor hadn’t replied, because really, what good would it do? Yuuri obviously wasn’t willing to have the conversation Viktor was dying to start.

Waiting has always been a weak point for the Russian. Viktor had spent the rest of his afternoon trying to keep his mind off the clock. He’d taken a long, pampering bath, tried to nap again. He’d ordered up room service for his own dinner and had intentionally chewed every bite as slowly as possible while scanning through his viewing options on the flat screen mounted to the wall. One of the two books he’d brought to Spain sits finished on the nightstand, the other bookmarked about a third of the way in.

Waiting had never been a strong point for Viktor and now, at nearly 10:00 PM, he is out of ideas for how to kill time and wondering if Yuuri will manage to avoid talking about what happened last night altogether... if he really will just give his thanks after the free skate tomorrow and bid Viktor farewell as if it were nothing.

 _Maybe he’s purposely staying out because he’s hoping I’ll be asleep when he gets back,_ Viktor thinks. A long sigh snakes up and out of Viktor’s lungs as he scrolls upward through old messages that read kinder, happier, and more intimate.

Viktor resigns himself to that very possibility and decides to call it a night. Just as he shifts to slip off the mattress so he can ready himself for bed, he hears the door lock click. His whole body freezes mid-action, leaving him in an awkward half-stand at the side of his bed until, after another small eternity, Yuuri pulls the door open. He’s backed by yellow light from the hall, brighter than the golden stain of the hotel room’s lamps, and he looks... _so_ tired.

“Yuuri,” Viktor breathes, forcing himself to stand fully erect. His arms hang loose and awkward at his sides.

“Hi,” Yuuri says quietly as he pulls the door shut behind him. He doesn’t step forward or make any movement to divest himself from his coat, but Viktor sees him actively fight the urge to look down at his feet.

It’s progress, no matter how small.

“Hi,” Viktor answers, and then after a pause rushes to add, “I’m sorry. I walked out on you last night, and then I did it again today at the rink. I shouldn’t have left like that. I was irritated, but that’s no excuse for--.”

Yuuri immediately shakes his head. “No!” he says, his voice uncontrolled and pitchy. “No, you... you shouldn’t apologize. I’m the one who’s sorry. Last night, I just...I wasn’t thinking, I guess. Everything felt so terrible, and I just thought....”

His face flushes a deep red and he clears his throat. Viktor waits.

“Well, maybe I _wasn’t_ thinking,” Yuuri continues. “But this morning, I was just being stubborn and I ignored you. That was childish of me. But I was... really happy that you came, actually.”

Viktor doesn’t have time to grimace or respond before Yuuri is pulling his jacket off and crossing the room, leaving his outerwear in a crumpled mess on the floor. He fists his hands into Viktor’s shirt and looks up with those burning brown eyes, full of fire and worry and honesty. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice firm and steady.

Viktor’s hands move upward on their own to grip Yuuri’s forearms as if he’s scared Yuuri may walk right back out the door. He can only breathe Yuuri’s name again before pulling him in to hold the younger man against his chest. Yuuri’s muscles stiffen at first, then melt into the embrace as he presses his face into the Russian.

“I’m _so, so_ sorry, Viktor,” he says, muffled. “For today, and for yesterday. For everything.”

Viktor loops his arms around Yuuri’s shoulders and squeezes before loosening again so that he can get a good look at the other man’s face. Yuuri angles his head up and offers a pitiful smile.

“I don’t want to leave it like this between us,” Yuuri begins, “but... I don’t know how to make this right, either.”

“Don’t retire,” Viktor says simply. It’s a bold and clear-cut request, and Viktor’s throat goes dry as soon as the words are off his tongue. “Please,” he adds.

Yuuri’s head drops instantly, along with Viktor’s stomach. “I can’t promise that,” he says gently. “I don’t think I could keep skating without you. But...if you coach me... you’ll miss your chance to get back on the ice.”

“Yuuri!” Viktor groans, desperate. “I already told you, I want to _stay with you_. I don’t need to--”

“ _I_ need you to,” Yuuri interrupts pointedly. The sharpness of his statement takes Viktor aback leaving him only able to blink his clear, blue eyes wide and slow. His open mouth clamps shut as Yuuri sighs and takes his hand to pull him down into a sit at the edge of the bed.

“You know,” Yuuri continues slowly when they settle next to each other, “when I bombed in Sochi, I really did think that maybe I just wasn’t cut out for this after all. But then you showed up and pushed me, and it was like a miracle. Because my whole life, I’ve been skating to catch up to you, to be on the same ice with you -- as an equal. Even before you found me, you were my greatest motivator and inspiration. Having you with me as a coach... as _more_ than a coach... it’s been more than I could have ever hoped for. You believed that I _did_ belong here, and that made it easier for me to convince myself to keep going. So I don’t regret this at all, and I’ll always be grateful for this year.”

He pauses to suck in a breath and squeeze Viktor’s hand. Viktor mirrors the younger man with his own inhale because he can feel the “but” coming.

“But more than my pride or my career, I love watching you skate, Viktor. And even though I wish... I wish we could stay together like this...” Yuuri lifts Viktor’s hand and presses the palm to his own cheek, “...if you never step foot on the ice again, then I’ll lose the thing I love most about skating.”

The sting of hot tears pricks at Viktor’s eyes; he silently wonders if this new tendency to cry is Yuuri’s _doing_ or his _influence._ He tries to blink them back, but Yuuri reaches out and runs his thumb along Viktor’s lower lid, collecting each drop.

“I made you angry again,” Yuuri says softly, his lips tugged down at the corners.

“No,” Viktor chokes. “I just... I want to give you everything, Yuuri. But what you’re asking for...I don’t know if I can give that to you.”

“Why not?” Yuuri asks. He presses his cheek further into Viktor’s palm.

“Before I set out to find you, I was _so uninspired_. Nothing I did surprised anyone anymore, and I could feel everyone getting bored with me. I tried to come up with something, but it just felt so useless. I didn’t think I had anything left in me.”

“And now?”

Viktor licks his lips, which have begun to tremble. “You’ve given me so much. _Inspired_ me so much. You have no idea how much I love your skating, Yuuri. And you...I feel like you woke me up. Now, I have so many new experiences and ideas, so many things I want figure out how to express on the ice. I want to put all of them into new programs... programs I was going to give to you.”

“But those feelings belong to _you_ ,” Yuuri insists. “Whatever you come up with won’t mean the same thing or look as good if I skate it. You should be the one using them for your _own_ programs. You still have a _lot_ left in you, Viktor, and I don’t want to be the reason you never get the chance to prove it.”

“I’m afraid,” Viktor finally says, simply and plainly.

“Afraid of what?”

“These last few months, I’ve changed. The things I want to express now... I’m afraid that no one will understand them,” Viktor admits, thumbing at the top of Yuuri’s cheek, near his eye.

Yuuri smiles warmly. “I will,” he says, pressing his forehead to Viktor’s.

“What if I’ve lost too much time already?” Viktor whispers. “What if I can’t be like I was? No one wants to see me skate if I’m not at the top.”

“I do,” Yuuri says, his breath hot against Viktor’s face.

Viktor tilts his face upward and to the side, just slightly, and presses his lips into Yuuri’s. Yuuri returns it, soft and earnest. When Viktor pulls away and opens his eyes, Yuuri lingers a few seconds, his own brown eyes curtained under dark, heavy lashes.

“Don’t retire,” Viktor pleads for the second time, voice shaky.

Yuuri lifts his eyes to Viktor, and replies with his own request, one laced with a mix of sadness and hope. “Come back.”

Viktor sighs heavily, which prompts a grimace from his companion.

“Maybe... maybe we don’t have to decide right now,” Yuuri offers, dropping their hands from his cheek and lacing them together in his lap instead. “There’s still a little bit of time left.”

“We wait?” Viktor blinks.

Yuuri nods. “Until after everything is over. Right now, deciding feels... a little impossible, doesn’t it? Maybe it’ll be easier to decide once the competition is finished.”

Viktor searches Yuuri’s face, eyes washing over every crease and curve. He’s so beautiful and so earnest, and Viktor is too emotionally exhausted to keep this up for much longer. So he nods his agreement.

“Until after the Final, then.”

They sit together in silence for a long while, just running their thumbs over each other’s knuckles and touching one another's’ faces.

“Should we go to bed?” Viktor eventually suggests, his eyes cast down to the ring encircling Yuuri’s fourth finger. “It’s late.”

Yuuri nods. “But I need to shower first.”

As Yuuri disappears into the bathroom, Viktor strips down to his briefs and slips under the covers on his side of the bed. He closes his eyes and listens to the water streaming in the other room and the muted sounds of Yuuri moving about. Replaying their conversation in his head, he tries -- really _tries --_ to consider what Yuuri said. But a comeback seems like such big a hurdle, and not one he’s even sure he wants to try and overcome. And besides, even if he makes a comeback, that won’t change the fact that Yuuri wouldn’t be there beside him. So is it really worth doing at all, even if it’s what Yuuri wants?

A squeak of the shower knobs precedes the tense silence that comes when the water stops flowing. After a moment or two, there’s the sound of a blow dryer, then the sound of teeth being scrubbed and a gurgle of water. Viktor waits, holding his breath, until Yuuri opens the door, letting steam roll out behind him. He’s dressed more conservatively than Viktor in a white t-shirt and a pair of jersey knit shorts. His hair isn’t completely dry, and his skin is tinged pink from the heat. He moves about the room, fishing his phone from his jacket pocket before he rounds the bed to his nightstand.

The mattress creaks when he sits to set an alarm and plug in his charger. Then he places his glasses next to his phone and turns off the lamp. Viktor reaches over and turns his off as well, his back to Yuuri as he slides under his covers. When he rolls back, Yuuri is on his side, gaze fixed on Viktor.

“Can I come closer?” he requests. The light from outside casts a glow in the room, and Viktor can see Yuuri’s eyes wide and childlike, like he was maybe a bit scared to ask at all.

“You’re so straightforward today,” Viktor manages to tease with a small smile.

“Can I?” Yuuri insists.

“Yes,” Viktor answers, and all at once, they’re both moving toward the center of the large bed they’d improvised by combining their narrower ones.

Victor throws one arm over Yuuri’s waist and presses his hand to his back, urging the younger man closer. Yuuri lays a hand at the base of Viktor’s neck and hooks a leg between Viktor’s. For a moment, Viktor considers pressing himself into Yuuri, but he lets the temptation pass. Right now, he needs a particular kind of intimacy, and he won’t find it in the heat of passion or the hitching of breaths.

They stare at each other without a word between them, until Yuuri finally sighs and tucks himself in under Viktor’s chin.

“I was so scared to talk to you,” he says.

“Why would you be scared?” Viktor asks, genuinely shocked at the notion.

“Last night, you didn’t even turn around when I called out to you. And then, when you left the rink this morning, it really hit me how upset you were,” Yuuri explains quietly. “I felt terrible and I came back here to find you, but you were gone and I got scared. I sent you a text message to try to feel out your mood or something. But you never replied, so I thought you must be really angry.”

“I’m sorry,” Viktor says into Yuuri’s hair. “I read it, but I didn’t know what to say, and I thought... I didn’t want to push you. I felt like you’d gone so far away already. I’m just glad you came back.”

Yuuri sighs into Viktor’s neck. “I’ve been stupid. I realize it now. Phichit’s been telling me for a while to just talk to you about everything I've been thinking, but I always thought it’d make everything worse, or that you’d hate me for being too... I don’t know. High maintenance, I guess?”

Viktor genuinely laughs and nuzzles his face into Yuuri’s head. “How could I hate you for that? It’d be like... what’s that phrase? Something-something pot and kettle?”

“The pot calling the kettle black,” Yuuri supplies with a tiny grin.

Viktor laughs again. “Yes, that. ”

“He scolded me again tonight,” Yuuri adds.

“Who did?”

“Phichit. After dinner, he told me if I didn’t go straight back to the hotel to talk to you, _he’d_ never talk to _me_ again.”

“Then I’ll have to thank him, I suppose.”

“Mm,” Yuuri says before an uncontrollable yawn rips out of his mouth.

“We need to sleep,” Viktor says softly as he pushes Yuuri’s hair back and brushes his lips along his hairline. “You, especially. Tomorrow is a big day.”

“Yeah,” Yuuri yawns again. He returns Viktor’s kiss with one of his own, just next to Viktor’s Adam’s apple. “Good night, Viktor.”

“Sleep well, Yuuri,” Viktor replies.

Yuuri’s breathing slows almost immediately, settling into a deep rise and fall that Viktor can feel against his naked chest. Viktor tries to archive the moment. Even though they’d decided to revisit the matters of retirements and comebacks after the Final was over, Viktor feels a heavy sense of dread and loss begin to build in his chest. This may be the last time he can be like this with Yuuri. So whatever happens tomorrow, he will etch this scene, with the two of them folded into one another, onto his heart to keep with him forever after.

For the third time in two nights, he feels his eyes overflow with heat and salt. It’s difficult, but with some determination, he keeps his sobs stifled so he doesn’t wake the man in his arms.

* * *

 

Morning comes too soon; Viktor is nudged awake by the shuffle of Yuuri slipping out of his hold and the cold air in the empty space that results from his absence.

“Morning,” Yuuri says softly, looking down at Viktor’s face from his seat on the far side of the bed.

“Good morning,” Viktor answers, head still groggy and eyes still puffy. He glances over his shoulder at the alarm clock on the nightstand behind him in as much an effort to hide any evidence of his crying as a need to know that it’s only 7:00 AM. “It’s early.”

“Morning practice,” Yuuri quips. He turns his back to Viktor to turn off the alarm on his phone, which Viktor is only now registering.

“Ah,” the Russian says, sitting up. “Do you feel up for it?”

“I think it’s a good idea to go,” Yuuri says, coolly. “Since it’s my last chance to see what the others are doing before the real thing.”

Viktor watches Yuuri stand and strip his clothes as he walks toward his suitcase to fish out a clean set of practice clothes. He moves like he can’t (or doesn’t want to) see anything except what’s directly in front of him, and Viktor finds himself frowning. Despite last night’s conversation, it feels like Yuuri is still hiding behind the remnants of a wall that, over the past few months, Viktor had so patiently tried to take apart, brick by brick. Seeing Yuuri still trying to maintain the last barricade hurts; it feels like it means he’s already made up his mind.

“Should I go with you?” Viktor asks Yuuri’s back as the Japanese man pulls a black lycra shirt over his head.

Yuuri glances over his shoulder and offers a tired smile. “Yes, please.”

* * *

 

The atmosphere during morning practice had had the same as these last few moments leading up to Yuuri’s free skate: tense, fragile, and uncertain. Yuuri had kept a polite distance (which was an unnervingly reminiscent of how awkward they’d been after returning from the Cup of China) and when Viktor went before the cameras before the event kicked off, he struggled to paint on the face he’d perfected over the course of his career. He just couldn’t find it within himself to muster the excitement he should be projecting as Yuuri’s coach.

But that changed when Yuuri was waiting by the boards to be announced just before his turn. Viktor couldn’t take it. He couldn’t send Yuuri out on the ice like that, feeling a million miles away. So he’d said some safe things in an attempt to bridge the gap between them. But then Yuuri had admonished him for not speaking his mind, prompting Viktor to say some unsafe things that he’d been keeping bottled since the night before. That’s when the floodgates had opened. The two of them sobbed in each other’s arms, hot tears completely obliterating whatever barrier Yuuri had been trying to maintain.

Now, Yuuri is in position in the center of the ice, and Viktor can’t breathe.

The piano is magic. As the first notes tinker out over the speakers, Yuuri transforms. The broken sobs from just a moment ago are no longer written on his face. He is calmness and grace personified as his arms fly about, his fingers tipped like a dancer, his neck thrown back with an elegance that makes Viktor weak in the knees. Yuuri is speaking through movement of his body.

It’s not the first time Viktor has felt like Yuuri was speaking to through his skating, but he’d second guessed himself so many times before, wondering if he’d just wanted to believe that. Now? He’s sure. He’s sure he was right in the past, and he’s sure that in this moment, Yuuri is skating _for_ him. As Yuuri turns the fourth rotation of a jump they hadn’t planned for, Viktor can hear him as clearly as if they were still curled into each other on the hotel bed.

It’s not just gratitude for coaching him into the Final or a declaration of his intent to return Viktor to the ice. It’s a mirror. Yuuri is showing Viktor the skater Yuuri thinks him to be. He’s reflecting all of the inspiration he said he got from the Russian and giving it all back. And when Yuuri launches into his final jump, the one that has long been Viktor’s signature, the one that Yuuri hadn’t managed to land in competition cleanly even once, he’s telling Viktor, _“I love you...”_

And Viktor _hears_ it. It rings out in the clack of Yuuri’s blade as it hits the ice, solid and beautiful, and in the roar of the crowd that follows. It’s so unmistakably clear that his chest tightens and he finds himself crying _again._ But this time, his tears are of pure joy. And as Yuuri lifts his hand and reaches out across the ice for him when the music dies, Viktor understands the rest of his confession: _“...no matter what happens now.”_

At the kiss and cry, Viktor feels like he’s standing on a fence, about to tip one way or the other. It’s finally here, the moment they’d worked so hard for. He wants Yuuri to do well, and after a performance like that, there’s no doubt he will. The gold is almost assuredly his, and Viktor _should_ be ecstatic. But another part of him doesn’t want Yuuri to win, because actually accomplishing the goal they’d aimed for feels too final, too perfectly wrapped up. It’s like a storybook ending. The Prince will win the day and, having done exactly that they set out to do, will be satisfied and retire into a calm, peaceful life, and everyone will live happily ever after.

Except for Viktor. He will be alone again and decidedly _un_ happy.

The announcement of Yuuri’s scores rings out over the PA system, bringing Viktor out of his head and back into reality. His eyes fly upward to see the numbers, displayed in a million LED lights, burning back at him. His stomach clenches.

_It’s over._

Yuuri hasn’t _just_ done well. He’s rocketed himself to first place and in doing so, has broken Viktor’s world record, just as Yurio had done on the same ice days prior.

_Yurio._

Viktor jumps off the fence, having firmly chosen a side.

He’s going to make his comeback, but he’s not going to give Yuuri the satisfaction of a retirement without regrets. So while Yuuri is shuffled off to do the usual post-skate interviews, Viktor runs to find the Russian teen and his coach because, in a strange twist of fate, it’s the other Yuri, the overly-ambitious kid to whom Viktor had once broken a promise, who will decide the rest of Viktor’s life.

But he can’t just ask Yurio for a favor outright, not when he knows the youngster still harbors a grudge. So he tells Yakov that he wants to come back and immediately watches the blonde for his reaction. The horror in Yurio’s face as the teen demands to know what that means for Yuuri tells Viktor everything he needs to know and had long suspected.

By the seaside, on the morning after their engagement, Yurio had spit insults at Viktor, insisting that he never looked up to Viktor the way everyone else seemed to. But he had a fire in him, and it was then that Viktor had realized that _Yuuri_ was the one who’d lit it. In terms of inspiration and motivation, Yuuri was Yuri’s Viktor.

Throwing his arms around the teen’s slight frame, Viktor whispers an overdue apology into Yurio’s ear. And then he begs for Yurio to keep Yuuri off the center podium, not only for his sake, but for Yurio’s as well.

“ _Please,_ ” Viktor rasps. “Make him regret even _thinking_ about retiring. Make it _impossible_.”

Yurio takes his mission to heart and manages to keep the gold from being hung around Yuuri’s neck. As Yurio breaks down in the center of the rink following an unearthly performance, Viktor carves out a special place in his heart for the young skater. Even if Viktor was never his idol, Yurio is now Viktor’s hero.

* * *

 

After the medal ceremony, Yuuri tackles Viktor to the ground and asks him to stay with him in competitive skating for one more year. He isn’t going to retire.

As he throws his arms around Yuuri, relief floods Viktor and the urge to cry wells up inside him once more. But he’s had enough tears in the past few days to last him a lifetime, so he swallows hard and turns his face into the side of Yuuri’s head before finally answering the confession Yuuri had made out on the ice.

“I love you,” he whispers, pressing an unrestrained smile into Yuuri’s ear.

And Yuuri says it back immediately.

And Viktor knows it’s the same.

And he cries again, despite himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Next time:**
> 
>  
> 
> With a contented smile, he sighs, "Finally."  
> \--
> 
> You guys.... THIS IS THE END OF THE ANGST! YOU DID IT! CONGRATULATIONS! Are you okay? Do you need a band-aid, or maybe some chocolate? The next and final chapter will be your lovey-dovey reward for making it this far!
> 
> I want to thank you for reading my fic up to this point. It's been so long since I wrote anything for a fandom, and the comments I received on each and every chapter really encouraged me to keep going and often made my day. I'm sort of sad that Dissonance will end after the next chapter, but I hope you'll be satisfied with it. I also hope you'll consider reading the AU I'll be sharing in the near future. 
> 
> Also, big shout out to Chris in this chapter for laying some truth down on Viktor. Writing this fic has made me love Chris a whole lot. 
> 
> Until next time, come find me over on Tumblr [@hanarezu-ni](http://www.hanarezu-ni.tumblr.com); I post and reblog good stuff sometimes.


	9. Harmony (Duet)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How can you be nervous? It’s not like you’ve never done this before,” Yuuri points out.  
> “In a way, I haven’t,” Viktor says. “I’ve never done this with someone I loved.”  
> “W-why not?”  
> “Because I’ve never loved anyone else.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter isn't told from any one perspective. They're finally operating on the same wavelength, so I wanted to give them equal opportunity to share their experiences with you. ♥

Yuuri is running late to the press conference that follows the medal ceremony. He’d tried to hurry into a change of clothes, but Viktor’s insistence that he wasn’t physically able to be more than a foot away from Yuuri for fear of breaking the euphoria he was drinking in had slowed things down considerably. Now, the cameras and lights are already on and waiting as he slides into the chair next to Yurio, behind the long table draped in white. Viktor files in a few steps behind and stands to the side in the shadows, out of the scope of any nearby cameras.

“Took you long enough,” the teenager snaps.

“Sorry,” he whispers under his breath and then says again louder to the gathering of media professionals before him. “Sorry I’m late, everyone. Thank you for waiting.”

Immediately, dozens of microphones are raised and flashbulbs pop from every angle. Countless questions are thrown to the front of the room from as many reporters. Folding his hands in his lap, Yuuri steels himself against the sensory overload he’s come to expect at these interviews and tries to focus on one voice at a time.

“Yuri, can you tell us what inspired such a masterful performance today?” one woman asks in a commanding voice that travels over the others.

Both Yurio and Yuuri open their mouths and begin to speak, “I was--”

The skaters clamp their lips together in unison and look toward one another, Yuuri with a sheepish half-smile and Yurio with a glare that could burn a hole through the silver medalist. The crowd laughs.

“She meant me,” Yurio growls. “In case you forgot, _I’m_ the gold medalist, Katsudon. Wait your freaking turn.”

“S-sorry,” Yuuri stutters, putting both hands up in deference. “Go ahead.”

Yurio clicks his tongue and turns back to the cameras. “I was determined to make my senior debut one that everyone will remember for decades,” he answers firmly, “and cement my role as the future of skating for both Russia and the world.”

It’s a bold declaration, and that boldness isn’t lost on the audience. Whispers move through the crowd as notes are jotted down in memo pads and reporters lean into each to make comments to one another in hushed tones. The corner of Yuuri’s mouth twitches upward; it’s just the kind of answer he’d expect from the ambitious blonde.

“And how about Japan’s Yuuri,” the woman smiles. “It was a close competition, and some are already calling your free skate here today one of the best performances of the season so far.”

“I was... I wanted to make sure this was a season I would always remember,” he says thoughtfully. “I didn’t want to have any regrets.”

The reporters hang their heads over their steno pads to jot down notes, but the brief pause is interrupted by a loud bang as Yurio stands, his chair scraping the floor as it’s shoved backward, and smacks the table hard enough for the name cards placed in front of the three medalists to fall over. The line of microphones in front of them squeal; everyone jumps, even JJ.

“Oi!” Yurio says, grabbing the collar of Yuuri’s black and blue JSF jacket, “Do you mean to tell me that after _all of that_ , you’re _still_ going to retire?!”

A gasp goes up through the crowd and the room devolves into immediate chaos. Yuuri doesn’t even have time to figure out how Yurio knows that he’d been planning on quitting.

“Mr. Katsuki, are you really retiring?!”

“When did you decide to retire?”

“Yuuri, what will you do now that you’re done with skating?”

“Why would you retire after such a stellar season?”

Yuuri stammers as he starts to answer one question only to be assaulted by another. Between the barrage of voices and the piercing green stare that has set a target lock on his face, Yuuri feels himself go into shut down mode. His mouth hangs open, having not managed to form more than a few words total when one question gets tossed into the mix that quiets all the others.

“Does this mean Viktor Nikiforov will be coming back to compete now that he is no longer under any obligation as your coach?”

Yuuri glances over to where Viktor is standing, his eyes wide and two fingers resting on top of slightly parted lips. Every head in the room follows his gaze.

“Um,” Yuuri says, licking his lips as he attempts to command the room’s attention. “I... I _had_ considered making this my final season, but after talking it over with Viktor.... I will _not_ be retiring, no. I want to compete for as long as I can.”

Yurio’s shoulders droop dramatically and he slumps back down into his chair, eyes wide and... relieved? Yuuri isn’t sure he should be so bold as to assume as much, but it certainly _seems_ that way.

“As for Viktor,” Yuuri continues carefully. He glances back to the Russian and lifts his brows in a silent request for permission. Viktor offers a smile that says _it can’t be helped_ and nods. “...he will be staying on as my coach.”

The crowd murmurs.

“...while he competes in his own right.”

The room erupts into frenzied shouting for the second time as the cameras swing over to the dark corner where Viktor has been trying to make himself disappear. It’s too late for magic tricks now; the returning legend turns on his celebrity smile and waves with a wink. From the other side of the table, JJ asks if anyone has any questions for him. No one responds.

* * *

 

 The hotel door slams shut behind them and Viktor is immediately all over Yuuri, wishing he had another pair of hands because he can’t seem to touch enough of him at any one time. They grab at each other’s clothes, tugging and pulling desperately between heated pants against one another’s mouths like clumsy teenagers.

“You’re the talk of the town, Yuuri,” Viktor purrs before licking a kiss against Yuuri’s jaw.

“Not me,” Yuuri groans, tipping his head back to expose his neck to the taller man. “You.”

“ _Us,”_ Viktor corrects as he shoves Yuuri’s jacket over his shoulders and down his arms until the Japanese skater can free his hands from it. He leans in to take advantage of the expanse of skin Yuuri offers him.

“T-they were really su... _ah,_ surprised,” Yuuri gasps when Viktor’s face moves up to capture the lobe of his ear between two rows of perfectly straight teeth. It’s overload, but not the kind he’d felt at the press conference. The kind that leaves him limp and pliant and _willing._

“They were,” Viktor hums a confirmation while trailing his fingers down Yuuri’s arms. “And we’re going to surprise them all over again tomorrow at the Gala.”

The comment flips a switch inside Yuuri, one that has him replaying a similarly heated encounter in this very same room. He grabs Viktor’s shoulders and pushes gently, forcing Viktor to remove his lip from Yuuri’s ear. The taller man settles for a quick nip of his bottom lip instead.

“ _Viktor,”_ Yuuri squirms, his knees turning to jelly as the older man stuffs his hand under Yuuri’s top and drags his nails over each abdominal muscle. “The exhibition skate,” he continues shakily between heavy breaths. “We can’t...this...tomorrow... we have to skate....”

Viktor drops both of his hands to the band of Yuuri’s training pants and lets his fingers trail just on the inside of the hem, under Yuuri’s navel. “Are you _rejecting_ me?” he pouts, eyes already half-lidded.

“N-no,” Yuuri shakes his head without hesitation, though he takes a half step back in an attempt to collect himself and cool his head. “But you’re the one who said it might make skating uncomfortable, right?”

Viktor’s bottom lip sticks out further.

“A-and we’ve got all of those lifts. I don’t want to drop you,” Yuuri adds.

Viktor tips his head to one side to regard Yuuri’s flushed face. His eyes are wide and honest, and he’s so _open._ He’s glowing, really. Of course, stopping here isn’t what Viktor wants. He’s waited for this moment, for them both to be _ready_ and _willing_ and _understanding_ of each other, for longer than he’s waited for anything in his entire life. But Yuuri’s right. So Viktor swallows down the molten desire that he feels burning in his chest and tells himself to slow down. There’s no rush, he reminds himself. They’d agreed to stay together, against all odds. There will be plenty of time. Forever. Eternity.

“A fair point,” he smiles regretfully. His hands move to card through Yuuri’s hair, which is already disheveled to the point that it’s only a ghost of the slicked-back style he wore on the ice. “But I _need_ you, Yuuri.”

Yuuri’s eyes soften; he steps back into Viktor’s space and rests his forehead against the Russian’s. His hands cup the sides of his face. “I know,” he sighs happily. “Me, too. But we’d better wait until tomorrow for _that.”_

The heat between them goes from a raging fire to a candle flame as Viktor concentrates of steadying his breathing. When he’s managed to reign himself in, closes his eyes and tips his head in to brush his nose against his student’s. “Okay.... okay.”

Part of Yuuri feels relieved; the journey from arena to hotel had been arduous. They’d both buzzed with a host of pent up emotions and words and _desires_ , and while Yuuri would, of course, welcome Viktor’s advances, the intense anticipation wrapped up in each step, each floor in the elevator, each hurried kiss and heated touch had drained him quickly. But now, as they stand together just inside the door in various stages of dishevelment, Yuuri has a moment to regroup. And when he does, he feels a little guilty and a lot bold.

He brushes his lips along Viktor’s and says in the lowest whisper he can manage, “But you’re welcome to join me in the shower and help me get cleaned up.”

Viktor, a wilted flower until this very moment, perks up. “Perfect!” he chirps, grabbing Yuuri’s hand and pulling him toward the bathroom.

They both get a little dirtier before either one gets clean.

* * *

 

At the banquet, everyone buzzes about the pair skate. Sponsors are lining up to speak with Yuuri, including some of Viktor’s. After a performance like that (and a not-so-unintentional slip of the tongue to an international skating publication from Viktor about the rings both men sport not being _just_ good luck charms), marketing professionals already have dollar signs in their eyes. The Nikiforov-Katsuki powerhouse: now with added intrigue and worth twice as much together than they ever were separate.

Only an hour in, Yuuri is already itching to return to the hotel room, not out of any immediate desire to be alone with Viktor (though he’d be lying if it wasn’t a lingering thought at the edges of his mind), but because the attention they’ve both heaped upon themselves is dizzying and tiring and completely out of the ordinary for the Japanese skater. Viktor is better practiced with his easy smile and noncommittal “That sounds amazing. We’ll need some time to consider it.” While streams of people file by to congratulate Yuuri or express their relief that Viktor will return, or wish them both well in their new life together, the Russian never breaks contact. He slips his hand into Yuuri’s or drapes a protective arm around his shoulders, always with a warm glance cast down at the Japanese skater from the corners of his eyes.

Yuuri is thankful for that, and for when Yurio stalks up to him and threateningly points his spoon in Yuuri’s face, demanding his full attention and scaring off the next group of hungry publicity professionals.

“ _You two._ I _hate_ you,” the young skater clucks. “ _I_ won gold, but everyone is talking to _you two_ , like you’re something special or whatever. It’s not _fair.”_

Yuuri scratches his cheek and offers a humble smile. “I know,” he says.

“And your exhibition wasn’t _that_ great,” Yurio sneers as he balances his plate in one hand and spoons spiced rice into his mouth with the other. “It was all like, lovey-dovey or whatever. But mine was crazy hardcore and just _way_ more exciting.” He turns to flash a grin at Otabek, who stands behind him with a quiet smile. “Right?”

Otabek concurs with a nod, almost imperceptible in its slightness.

“It really was amazing,” Yuuri agrees, “and I’m sorry we sort of stole your thunder. At the press conference, too.”

“I mean, I guess you not retiring is... _whatever,_ ” the Russian teen continues with a stiff shrug, “but for _this_ jerk to suddenly just decide to get back in the rink--”

“ _Me?_ ” Viktor asks with an innocent grin.

“Yeah, _you,”_ Yurio spits back before turning his eyes back to Yuuri. “You told him to do it, right? Were you _that_ pissed off about what I said the other day?”

Yuuri thinks back to the conversation they’d had right after Yuuri’s short program. Yurio had insulted Viktor, had ridiculed him for wasting his time and his momentum, had claimed that Viktor would never be as good as he’d been before he’d flown across an ocean. Had said it was all Yuuri’s fault. And Yuuri had taken it to heart, had let the words of some young punk push him until he’d very nearly reached the point of no return. Yuuri had almost lost something he hadn’t realized had become so necessary to his own existence.

But it wasn’t Yurio’s fault, not really. It was Yuuri’s. If only he’d been honest sooner, more frequently open, more willing to _listen._ And when Yuuri really thinks about it, Yurio has been the catalyst for everything good that’s happened to Yuuri this season. Without competing against Yurio at Onsen on Ice, Yuuri might not have been as motivated to make the Eros program _his._ Without Yurio’s insistence that he answer Viktor’s attempts at contact after his near-miss in Moscow, they might not have found their way into each other’s arms at all. And without Yurio pulling off the upset of a lifetime today, Yuuri might have let Viktor walk right out of his life.

So he smiles and opens his mouth to assure Yurio that Viktor’s comeback is not a personal slight, but Viktor interrupts.

“What you said the other day?” he asks, a hand still protectively on Yuuri’s shoulder. “What do you mean?”

“Ah, it’s nothing--!” Yuuri starts.

“When I told him that it’s his fault that you’re never going to win a gold medal again,” Yurio smirks.

“Um!” Yuuri squeaks, turning to look at the silver-haired man at his shoulder. Viktor is smiling, but Yuuri can see the twitch in his eyes that betray his lips completely.

“ _Yura,”_ the Russian man starts, his voice liquid velvet. And then he lets loose a string of Russian that Yuuri cannot follow to save his life, but gets the gist of from the way Viktor speaks through his teeth without ever letting the smile slip out of place. At one point he pauses, and Yurio mumbles out some kind of response, his hard gaze softened only by the way he bites his bottom lip at the end of his response. Viktor reaches out and ruffles the younger one’s hair a little too much, and says something in a tone that is both sickeningly sweet and aggressively challenging.

Whatever he’s said, it has the desired effect. Yurio spits back some half-hearted response and then says in English, “This is stupid. Later, Katsudon. Let’s go, Otabek,” before slinking off in the opposite direction, pulling the Kazakh skater (who politely nods a goodbye to the two older skaters) along by the sleeve.

“What was that?” Yuuri says when Yurio is out of earshot.

Viktor bends his head and rubs his nose in Yuuri’s hair. “Just some obedience training for an angry kitten,” he muses. “You look very handsome in that new suit, by the way. I’ve been meaning to tell you, but we’ve been surrounded since we go here.”

Yuuri flushes as he fidgets next to the taller man, who is still nuzzling him. “Thanks,” he manages, willing himself to relax into Viktor’s gesture of affection. “You, too. I mean, you always look... good.”

Viktor grins, running a finger along Yuuri’s jaw and then gently tipping his chin upward to--

The sound of a camera shutter followed by a honey-thick voice shatters the moment; they both freeze.

“Such shameless flirting,” Chris teases as strides up next to them, Phichit just steps behind.

“Cute picture, though!” the Thai skater chirps, thumbs flying over his phone’s screen.

“Please don’t post it,” Yuuri begs.

“Please _do_ ,” Viktor also begs.

Phichit chuckles, “Too late. It’s done,” and then turns his phone over to show them the upload, which somehow has already received at least fifteen hearts and a handful of emoji-laden comments in the _seconds_ it has existed.

“Phichit...” Yuuri groans.

Phichit shrugs with his hands up as if to say _“Well, what can you do?”_

“Seems like you two are enjoying yourselves,” Chris purrs at Viktor with a wink. He’s holding two champagne flutes by the stems and offers them to Viktor and his pupil. “We should celebrate.”

“Celebrate what?” Yuuri asks, eyeing the glass.

“Your silver. Viktor’s comeback,” Chris starts listing. “Your reconciliation?”

Viktor glances down at Yuuri, who is beet red and open-mouthed. “How did you--? We were--” the silver medalist bleats.

“You talked to him, right?” Phichit interjects, his head tilted to one side. “I mean, you look happy, so I assume you did? He talked to you, right?” he asks, directing his inquiry to Viktor this time.

Viktor chuckles as he gives a brief squeeze to Yuuri’s hand. “Yes, we talked. I suppose we should thank you... it seems we both owe you two some credit for that,” he concedes with an apologetic smile.

“I’ll say,” Chris quips.

“Right?!” Phichit nods to the Swiss skater. They both grin at each other.

Yuuri looks between the two and frowns. “You two... did you talk to each--?”

“A toast!” Chris interrupts nonchalantly, pressing the glasses into Viktor’s and Yuuri’s hands. “To the most frustrating couple of all time.”

Phichit pockets his phone, turns around, and takes two more flutes from a passing server before handing one to Chris and raising his glass. “Cheers!”

Viktor and Yuuri glance at each other and melt into nervous laughter. They clink their glasses with the other two. When their glasses are empty, Chris tries to ply Yuuri with another. Viktor steps in on his fiance’s behalf because he’ll be damned if Yuuri doesn’t remember this year’s banquet or what will happen thereafter.

* * *

 

“I spoke to Yakov briefly, right before we left,” Viktor says as they step off the elevator, hand in hand. “He... well, he yelled. A _lot._ Said I obviously hadn’t thought this through at all. But then he told me to do whatever I wanted since that’s what I’ve always done. His word choice was a lot more colorful, though.”

Yuuri grins. “Well, he’s not wrong.”

“You’re taking his side? You wound me,” Viktor pouts, nudging Yuuri’s shoulder with his own. “I am perfectly capable of restraint, you know. Last night, for example.”

Yuuri, despite his flush, casts a doubtful glance Viktor’s way. “You used my thighs to get yourself off,” he says in a low whisper lest anyone hear them in the hall. “I wouldn’t really call that restraint.”

“Trust me,” Viktor sighs dramatically, “it was _definitely_ restraint. Plus, I took care of you afterward, did I not?”

Yuuri hums a noncommittal response as he slips the key card out from his suit pocket and unlocks the door. As they pass into their room, the mood shifts. Words fall away from both of them as Viktor lets go of Yuuri’s hand to slip out of his overcoat; Yuuri follows suit. Each man removes his own suit jacket and kicks off his own shoes. Viktor removes his cuff links as Yuuri loosens his tie and pulls it over his head to drape it across the back of the hotel chair, where he’s placed his jacket. Then Yuuri empties his pockets onto Viktor’s bedside table: his phone, which he doesn’t bother to check, a thin wallet, a handful of business cards from potential sponsors.

Viktor steps forward until he’s at Yuuri’s side and takes the other man’s hand in his own. They stand shoulder to shoulder in silence, both looking down at the bed, pristine with fresh sheets, before them. Of course they have shared a bed in more ways than one, but this feels different. This feels like the final piece of a puzzle they’ve been trying to put together in the wrong order. Or maybe it’s more like a key that opens a treasure chest they’d been attempting to pry open. It’s an appointment they’ve been delaying and delaying but now that it’s finally coming to pass, neither of them can move. Viktor can feel Yuuri’s hand tense as the quiet drags on.

Just as Viktor is about to ask him what’s wrong, Yuuri mumbles, “I’m nervous,” without looking at his coach.

“I’m nervous, too” Viktor confesses in a low whisper.

The look Yuuri gives him is somewhere between disbelief and horror. “ _You’re_ nervous?”

Viktor nods sincerely. “Naturally.”

“How can _you_ be nervous? It’s not like you’ve never done this before,” Yuuri points out.

“In a way, I haven’t,” Viktor says. “I’ve never done this with someone I _loved_.”

“W-why not?”

“Because I’ve never loved anyone else.”

Yuuri’s wide eyes, his lax mouth, the way his hand tightens instantaneously around Viktor’s... it’s all the Russian needs. He steps forward and bends down to capture his partner’s lips with a hand laid against his cheek. “My whole heart is in your hands, Yuuri. Please treat it kindly,” he whispers when they come apart.

Yuuri chokes on something that sounds suspiciously like a sob, but he smiles -- genuinely smiles in that big, wet-eyed way that Viktor loves -- and laces his arms around the taller man to pull their chests flush against one another. Angling his head upward, he kisses Viktor’s bottom lip first, then the thinner one on top. Viktor sighs into both before worming his tongue along Yuuri’s lips, asking them to grant Viktor access. Yuuri allows him to pry his mouth open and answers in kind, curling his tongue around his coach’s.

They kiss each other in a tit-for-tat game, daring each other to go deeper, longer, more heated with each renewed attempt. Viktor’s thin fingers find their way to the row of shirt buttons that keep his hands from exploring the silver medalist fully. His mind is buzzing and the buttons are _so, so_ small, but he perseveres and pulls Yuuri’s shirt open to drag his manicured nails from chest to hip before he gets to work on the clasp that’s trapping the heat that radiates from between Yuuri’s legs.

Yuuri’s hands aren’t idle, either. As he runs his tongue along the bottom row of Viktor’s teeth, his right hand finds the knot of Viktor’s tie and gives it a rough pull downward to loosen it. Viktor yelps into his mouth and Yuuri smiles in response. Viktor, it seems, enjoys it when he plays a little rough. The younger skater twists his wrist to wind the tie around his fist and gives it a harder yank, using it as a lead to bring Viktor’s ear to the level of his mouth, just after Viktor manages to undo the zipper of his pants.

“Bed,” he rasps into the older man’s ear. “Now.”

Viktor manages a stilted groan, but he nods. With a playful flip of the wrist, his pushes Yuuri’s pants off of his hips so that they pool around his ankles, then lowers himself onto the mattress. Yuuri steps out of each pant leg and follows; he first climbs on top of Viktor, bracing himself on one arm, and then with that same dazzling smile, leans down kiss him again.

Viktor laughs against his mouth as he grips at Yuuri’s arm, not because it tickles, but because he can’t remember a time when he was _this_ happy. And while he’d be glad to let Yuuri take control, the _desire_ to give that joy back to Yuuri is too strong at the moment. In one fluid motion worthy of a man who is widely regarded as the most elegant skater in modern history, Viktor pushes Yuuri’s hips with his own and rolls them both over until he is on top of his pupil.

Yuuri moans when Viktor grinds himself into Yuuri’s pelvis. “ _Viktor_ ,” he pleads, without knowing exactly what he’s asking for.

“Patience,” Viktor chides.

With his shirt flapped open, the soft curve of Yuuri’s waist in contrast with the rigid lines of his chest and hips is on full display.

“Yuuri, you’re beautiful,” the Russian skater murmurs as he runs one hand over the planes of his chest.

Yuuri turns his head into the pillow to hide his face, but everything from his forehead to his collarbones turns a beautiful shade of pink. Viktor’s heart flutters at the lustful, breathy gasps that Yuuri lets out as he shimmies downward to drop hot kisses on each hip bone. The bulge in Yuuri’s boxer briefs is growing at an impressive rate; when Viktor nuzzles it with his nose, Yuuri sucks in a sharp breath and arches his back to press himself into Viktor’s cheek.

“ _Viktor,”_ Yuuri begs aimlessly again as one hand finds its way into a clump of silver hair where he can grasp at it in an attempt to ground himself.

Viktor frees Yuuri from his underpants, shifting just long enough to slip down over the sculpted thighs he’d enjoyed the previous night, and tosses them to the other side of the bed. Yuuri’s erection bobs to attention, weeping and flushed the same shade of red that stains Yuuri’s cheeks. He takes his time, licking a stripe slowly up the underside over the thick vein that leads him to the head, which he sucks into his mouth with a swirl of the tongue. Yuuri bucks under him, pulling at his hair with one hand and biting down on the second knuckle of the index finger on his other.

For a few minutes, Viktor allows himself to explore. He doesn’t try to take in his entire length, instead settling for a relaxed grip at the base so he can stroke upward while his tongue maps the shape of Yuuri. Yuuri’s hips twitch and spasm under him.

“S’not fair,” the younger man whines as he sinks his teeth into his own skin again. “You... you’re-- _nngh--_ still dressed.”

Viktor smiles and releases him so he can come to a stand at the edge of the bed between Yuuri’s ankles. “Come here and help me, then,” he coos.

Yuuri shudders at the loss of sensation, but he obediently clamors to his knees on the mattress and sets to work unbuttoning, unfastening, and undressing the gorgeous man before him. Viktor’s hands stay busy all the while, trailing feather light touches over Yuuri’s chest, tweaking at one nipple, then the other. When all that’s left to do is step out of his trousers and briefs (and skillfully work his socks off with only the help of an opposite foot), Viktor grips himself and strokes upward slowly.

“I think you should get your supplies,” he suggests.

Yuuri’s eyes are glued on the rhythm of Viktor’s fist over his cock; the tip of his tongue peeks out and wets his kiss-swollen lips.

“Yuuri,” Viktor calls again.

“Oh. Y-yeah,” Yuuri nods. He turns and crawls to the other side of the bed where his small bottle of lube and a pack of condoms lay in wait in the shallow drawer. When he returns, he places them within arm’s reach and fixes his gaze on Viktor’s current endeavor once more.

“Let me,” he requests after a moment.

Viktor half-smiles and lets himself go to jut his hips forward in an offering to his lover. On all fours and with the most beautiful arch of his back, Yuuri lowers his open mouth over Viktor and swirls his tongue before he sucks the length in deeper. His efforts earn him a sharp Russian curse and the unexpected buckle of its speaker’s knees. Viktor pitches forward and bends over Yuuri’s back.

“Amazing,” the older man manages to huff out, one hand cradled in the curve of Yuuri’s back for balance.

Yuuri is a bit clumsy, but it doesn’t matter. Viktor’s head is buzzing. He’d intended to drag this out for as long as Yuuri would let him, but his own willpower feels like it’s quite literally being sucked out of him with every bob of Yuuri’s head. He wants Yuuri, and he’s waited long enough.

Blindly, Viktor feels around for the small, clear bottle Yuuri had dropped nearby. When he finds it, he flips the cap and drizzles a liberal amount over his fingers before rubbing them together. Bending himself over Yuuri’s arched back once more, Viktor reaches for Yuuri’s ass and teases at the tight coil of muscle that resides in the valley of his cheeks. The sudden wet pressure causes Yuuri to gasp wide and loud; Viktor falls out of his mouth.

“Just going to help open you up,” Viktor murmurs, massaging his opening slowly. “Please don’t stop.”

Yuuri lets his head droop between tensed shoulders for a moment and tries to find his focus. He’s tempted to raise his hips and urge Viktor to push his finger inside, but if Yuuri has anything that Viktor doesn’t, it’s stubbornness. He can ride out Viktor’s teasing... probably. With renewed concentration and the help of one hand, he lifts his head and pulls Viktor back into his mouth.

Viktor fills him in more ways than one. The girth of his member fills his mouth. The musky scent of his skin mixed with the last vestiges of his cologne fills his nostrils. And while Yuuri is lost in the dizzying, heady taste of the fluids leaking from the slit at the tip of Viktor’s kick, the Russian’s finger pushes inside and fills him there. Viktor’s fingers are gentle and careful as he strokes and coaxes, eventually working in a second finger to scissor Yuuri open enough for a third.

They lavish attention on each other until they’re both panting, Viktor striking the walls inside Yuuri and Yuuri working Viktor’s length down further and further until he can ease his mouth down to the hilt.

“Yuuri,” Viktor chokes as he pulls his digits out. “If you keep on like that, I’m not going to make it.”

Yuuri sits back on his knees and rubs his jaw, secretly a little relieved. He enjoys being the one to make Viktor’s legs shake the way they are, but maybe he’d underestimated his own eagerness. Without Viktor’s fingers slipping inside, he feels suddenly empty.

“Think you’re ready?” Viktor asks as he slots one knee between both of Yuuri’s on the mattress.

Yuuri nods. “How... how should I..?”

“However you want, my love,” Viktor murmurs as he presses his mouth to Yuuri’s neck. “Whatever will make you comfortable.”

“I want to see your face,” Yuuri says, closing his eyes as Viktor’s lips travel to his Adam’s apple.

“Then lay back,” Viktor purrs.

As Yuuri positions himself against a pillow, Viktor picks up a foil packet and tears it open to roll the rubber over himself. The small bottle makes a second appearance, too; Viktor pours lube into his hand to first slick himself, then Yuuri’s length with whatever is left over. He grabs Yuuri’s legs and guides them, making them bend at the knees and splay out to the sides until he can properly align himself. Yuuri is holding his breath when Viktor presses his head to Yuuri’s opening.

Through heavy lashes, Viktor locks eyes with the Japanese man. “I love you,” he tells him.

Yuuri is sure his cheeks must be red already, but now he can physically _feel_ the color rising to the surface of his skin. He brings his hands up to cover his face. “What a thing to say at a time like this,” he whines.

“I’m saying it _because_ it’s a time like this,” Viktor states emphatically, adding at the end once more, “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he replies weakly from behind his hands. A wide smile peeks out despite his attempts to hide it.

“You said you wanted to see my face,” Viktor pouts, grabbing one of Yuuri’s wrists to pull it away. And then Viktor uses Yuuri’s own words against him in a low, lustful tone that makes Yuuri stop breathing for a moment. “So don’t take your eyes off me.”

Yuuri is propelled forward into a crunch so that he can crash his mouth against Viktor’s. Greedy and forceful, Yuuri shoves his tongue between Viktor’s thin lips and sweeps the insides of his cheeks. Viktor whimpers, but he responds in kind until they’re both breathless again. Gently, Yuuri lowers himself back onto the pillows he’d propped behind him and wiggles his hips in invitation.

The slow push, the stretch... it’s new and strange and the sounds Yuuri makes are sort of embarrassing, but it’s... _everything._ It’s the resolution of all the hurt he’d made both Viktor and himself suffer over the last few months. It’s the thrill of being wanted, not just now, but since before Yuuri had even laid eyes upon the naked man in his family’s hot springs. It’s the reality of Viktor Nikiforov, a world-class skater, a five-time champion, Yuuri’s childhood celebrity crush, who is _nothing_ like Yuuri had ever expected -- that is to say, _more_ than he’d ever expected. But more than anything, it’s the promise of a lifetime together, side by side, skating or not.

As his muscles adjust to the new fullness, Yuuri sighs contentedly.

Viktor sighs too, but it’s shakier than Yuuri’s. “So tight,” he grumbles, his eyes screwed shut.

Yuuri bends his knees back at a sharper angle to help Viktor sink himself in. When Viktor can’t push in any further, he nearly collapses on top of him. Yuuri cards a hand through Viktor’s hair and calls his name softly, begging him to let Yuuri see his beautiful, blue eyes. The Russian complies and is rewarded with another heated kiss.

“Can I move?” Viktor asks, voice scratchy and deep.

“God, _please,_ ” Yuuri groans as he grapples at Viktor’s sides.

Slowly, Viktor pulls back and then slides forward again, giving Yuuri a moment to get acquainted with the sensation. He goes slow, watching the Japanese man squirm under him for cues. Yuuri is easy to please; it’s not long at all before he’s been worked into a frenzy and demands that Viktor pick up the pace. Viktor does as he’s told and sits up to push faster, using Yuuri’s knees as a place of purchase for his hands. Neither man says anything coherent; the room is filled with the noises of skin on skin, lewd moans and low gurgles, names that are cut off midway and snippets of languages only one of them can understand. Yuuri concentrates on creating a physical memory of what it feels like to have Viktor inside him; Viktor focuses on keeping a pace that satisfies them both.

The need for release bubbles up in Yuuri first; an errant hand finds its way to his own swollen cock and he strokes himself, thankful for the lube Viktor had deposited there earlier. He doesn’t bother to work up to anything, but rather goes for quick, hard pumps from the start. When Viktor sees, he takes it as a cue to ramp up his own efforts. Carefully, he pulls one of Yuuri’s legs up and over his shoulder, resting the sculpted calf on the dip of his collarbone.

Yuuri spits out a sharp word or three in his native tongue at the sudden change of position. Viktor’s sliding over the spot Yuuri always seeks when he’s alone and he knows it won’t be long now. Still, he continues to stroke himself, encouraged by the way Viktor’s breathing suddenly becomes shallow and labored.

“V-Viktor,” he sputters. “I’m gonna come.”

“Wait,” Viktor hisses. “I’m almost...”

Yuuri sees sparks in his peripherals when he grips the base of his leaking erection tightly in an effort to stave off the inevitable. True to his promise, he never takes his eyes off the muscled silver-haired man who pounds into him with reckless abandon until he freezes and then shudders. The long, throaty groan that escapes Viktor as he thrusts while riding the waves of his orgasm signal Yuuri to release his grip. With two more tightly fisted strokes, he too is twitching and gasping.

 _“_ Oh, Yuuri, _Yuuri,”_ Viktor chokes out when he’s spent himself and pulled out. His limbs are jelly and he crashes down on top of the smaller man, paying no mind to the thick, white mess that coats Yuuri’s stomach.

Yuuri’s arms automatically find their way around Viktor; he slowly pets down the centerline of the older man's back and takes the moment to close his eyes and lose himself in the afterglow of their lovemaking. It’s the dampness on Yuuri’s shoulder when Viktor nuzzles into him that brings him back. He shifts and looks down his nose at the mop of tousled hair that hides the Russian’s face. “Viktor? Are you okay?”

“M’fine,” Viktor sniffs. “Perfect. Euphoric.”

“You’re crying,” Yuuri says softly, hesitantly brushing his coach’s bangs from his eyes to get a good look. His eyes are sparkling in their wetness, much like the ocean during summers in Hasetsu. His cheeks are stained pink, and his lips are twisted in a way that reminds Yuuri of the way he’d smiled when Viktor had demanded he become a five-time champion in exchange for failing to take gold in the Final.

“Yeah,” Viktor chuckles. “I am.”

“You do that a lot lately,” Yuuri teases, squeezing Viktor closer and pressing his cheek to the top of his head.

“All your fault,” Viktor ribs with a happy sigh.

“Sorry,” Yuuri murmurs as he trails his fingertips over the at notch the top if Viktor’s spine.

“Don’t be. I’ll happily drown in my own tears if it means feeling like this all of the time.”

“I’d rather you not,” Yuuri pouts.

“I’ll do my best.” Viktor brings a hand up to his face and wipes at his eyes and nose before lifting his head. “Are _you_ okay?”

A goofy grin slides over Yuuri’s face. “Yeah.”

“Just ‘yeah’?” Viktor asks, disappointment displayed plainly in his expression. “I was hoping for a better review than that.”

“I... don’t have words,” Yuuri admits. “This feels surreal.”

“Surreal?” Viktor blinks.

Yuuri nods. “I mean, I used to have posters of you all over my room and now you’re--”

The way Viktor’s face glows as his eyes widen and glitter brings Yuuri to the realization that he’s just admitted something _extremely_ embarrassing. He clamps his mouth shut as not to incriminate himself further, though the fire in his cheeks is probably giving him away regardless.

“ _Yuuuuuuri,”_ Viktor croons, wiggling his hips against the man under him. “You have _posters_ of me?! Since _when?_ Which ones?! _”_

Yuuri knows the only way to shut him up before he really gets going is to grab his face and bring him in for another kiss, so he does just that.

* * *

 

“Yuuri,” Viktor calls from the bathroom. “The water’s almost ready.”

“Coming,” Yuuri replies as he slips off the bed slowly, already feeling the ache that is the evidence of Viktor’s enthusiastic finale. But he smiles because the vague soreness is just another bit of proof that this has all really happened. Just like the silver medal that Viktor had insisted on wearing around his neck while he prepared the bath, just like the ridiculous number of pings from his phone announcing messages he still hasn’t checked, just like the ring on his finger which seems to glow in the dim lighting of their hotel room.

He walks into the bathroom just in time to see Viktor slip the medal over his head and place it lovingly on top of a hand towel on the counter. The room is hot and humid; the mirror is already fogged and steam rises off the water in the tub.

“This’ll feel nice,” Yuuri says, placing is hands on his lower back for accusatory emphasis.

“I thought it might,” Viktor grins. “But I have to be honest... it’s more for me than you.”

Yuuri turns his head to hide the slight flush of his cheeks. “I don’t see why. I didn’t get to do it to you,” he grumbles.

Viktor grins. “Did you want to?”

Yuuri coughs into his fist; it’s answer enough.

“Don’t worry,” Viktor mewls, “you will.”

“When?”

“ _So_ impatient,” Viktor titters as he bends to turn the knob on the faucet. “Give me some time to recover, my love. Not everyone has your impressive stamina.”

The bathroom is too quiet now without the sound of running water, and it makes Yuuri blush brighter.

“Anyway, I meant because of the Gala,” Viktor continues. “We didn’t practice the pair skate at all once we got here, so I’m pretty sore myself.”

Yuuri bites his lip out of guilt. “Because we couldn’t practice in front of everyone. Otherwise, it wouldn't have been a surprise.”

“I know,” Viktor says, taking Yuuri’s hand and tugging him toward the water. “I wasn’t blaming you. I’m just an old man, that’s all. Now I insist you get in this water with me _right now_ so we can both heal a little _.”_

“Mm.”

Viktor steps into the tub and eases down with a pleasurable sigh, stretching his legs in front of him and leaning his back against the wall; he angles himself to keep himself clear of the faucet. Yuuri follows behind and sits against the opposite wall between Viktor’s feet. He keeps his knees bent to his chest.

“It’s cramped,” the Japanese skater complains.

“It’s no Yuutopia, I’ll give you that,” Viktor says, flicking his hand into the water to send a small spray of water in Yuuri’s direction. “I’ll miss the outdoor bath after I head back to Saint Petersburg.”

Yuuri nods slowly, letting his legs stretch before him. Viktor reaches under the water and guides his ankles to rest on top of the Russian’s thighs.

“Of course, I’ll miss you the most,” Viktor adds, running a strong hand over one of Yuuri’s calves.

Yuuri straightens his shoulders and blinks. “What?”

“We’ll have to come up with some kind of plan,” Viktor says. “Maybe you can send me videos to review, and we’ll have to work out a regular time to call so I can go over my notes. And of course I’ll accompany you to competitions whenever my schedule allows. Maybe I can train with you in Hasetsu from time to time and just send videos back to Yakov...”

Confusion has Yuuri’s stomach doing flips. Under the water, he picks at his nails while Viktor hums to himself, apparently deep in thought about the logistics of their new dynamic. But it doesn’t make sense to him. Yuuri had decided not to retire. Viktor had decided to make his comeback and coach. Didn’t that mean they were going to stay together? Or did Viktor not want that? Had he misunderstood again?

He feels the urge to turn inward tug at his heart.

“Yuuri?” Viktor asks when Yuuri hasn’t said a word. He tilts his head to one side, steam-frizzed silver hair flopping into his eyes.

It would be so easy for Yuuri to just shut his mouth and accept whatever Viktor decides. To just nod and go with the flow. But he’s sure he wouldn’t be satisfied with any long-distance solution, and he’s learned his lesson. Or at the very least, he doesn’t want to make the same mistakes. So he resists the voice inside his head that tells him to swallow his words.

(Phichit would be proud.)

“What if I came with you?” he asks, shyly.

Viktor’s blue eyes sparkle. He sits up a little straighter and breathes a little shallower. “What?”

“What if I came with you?” Yuuri asks again. “To train in Saint Petersburg.”

Viktor stares so long, it makes Yuuri squirm. “...to live with me?”

“I-if that would be okay. I mean, if you don’t want to, that’s fine. I could find a place somewhere else, maybe?” Yuuri says in rapid-fire. “But I just kind of... assumed I’d be following you back to Russia. I thought it’d be easier for you.”

Viktor’s heart stops. He is dead, he knows it. This man who is tangled up with him in this bathtub that is entirely too small and at the same time just the right size because it keeps them in physical contact has killed him. He’s asking if _it’s okay_ for him to move in, to spend their days and nights together, to train together, to compete together, to share one hundred percent of their _lives_.

Why had Yuuri coming to Saint Petersburg never occurred to Viktor? Maybe he had assumed Yuuri would never go for it, so he’d never entertained the thought himself. But if the last few days, weeks, and months have taught Viktor anything, it’s that whatever he assumes he knows about Yuuri almost always ends up being completely wrong. He should have known better. Yuuri is stubborn and impulsive and brave, and he _always_ surprises Viktor.

“Yuuri, are you sure?” Viktor presses. “I would be... _so, so_ happy to have to come live with me! I’d love nothing more!”

Yuuri’s shoulders relax.

“But I don’t want to take you away from your home,” Viktor adds, “if that’s not what you want. Easier for me doesn’t mean better for you. No matter what you decide, we’ll make it work somehow. I want to do whatever will make you happiest.”

And then Yuuri’s shoulders go rigid with renewed tension. Viktor’s concern is just another opportunity to walk away from the conversation altogether, to say “Yeah, maybe you’re right, sorry for mentioning it.” But Yuuri tells himself to gather his courage and be honest -- not only with Viktor, but with himself.

“I’ve lived away from my family for most of my adult life,” he says. “Hasetsu is the place I grew up, but it’s not home. Not anymore.”

Viktor swallows hard.

“Home is with you, I think. I’m happiest with you.”

Correction: _now_ Viktor is dead. All of the air punches out of his lungs and he’s sure that if he weren’t sitting already, he would fall over. Actually, it’s a wonder he hasn’t slipped under the water and drowned himself right here. He’s _dead._ But he revives himself immediately-- he has to, because Yuuri is shifting onto his knees and leaning in over Viktor as he snakes his arms around the Russian’s neck. Viktor’s hand find their way to the Japanese man’s trim hips.

“Yuuri,” Viktor whispers, “you’re going to stay by my side?”

“Yeah.”

“And I can stay by yours?”

“Yeah.”

“Because we love each other,” Viktor declares confidently.

“Yeah,” Yuuri grins as he leans down and melts into Viktor’s mouth, kissing him until both of their lips are red and swollen.

The world around Viktor shifts. His _life_ shifts. No-- his life _begins._ When he manages to pull himself away, he bumps their foreheads together and with a contented smile, he sighs, “Finally.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Did you notice that we've come full circle? The last line of this chapter is the same as the first line of the first chapter.)
> 
> Thank you so, so much for reading Dissonance. It's been such a wonderful experience getting involved in a fandom again, and the comments and feedback I received on this work were amazing. I hope this final chapter was a satisfactory end and soothed the slow burn I inflicted on you. I love you all-- yes, you, and you, AND YOU. 
> 
> I'm excited to share my next work with you, a SUPER-ANGSTY post-canon Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind AU called [_Yuuri Forgetting, by Viktor Forgot_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11520513/chapters/25857231). The first chapter is already live and it will update weekly barring any unforeseen circumstances. (The first six chapters are already written.) It'd make my day if you gave it a shot. 
> 
> But no matter what, do come find me over on tumblr [@hanarezu-ni](http://www.hanarezu-ni.tumblr.com) to keep up with me, my works, and to see a crapton of YOI reblogs. 
> 
> Until then, see you next level! ♥♥♥♥


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